Repercussions
by Julie Poe
Summary: Don finds a series of rapes and murders disturbing, and refuses to let Charlie get involved in it. But the repercussions of his actions are more deadly than he could have imagined. Fixing a few plot mistakes. Perfection is the goal!
1. Last Chances Not Taken

Author's Note- This story is rated M for strong language, strong violence, strong gore, sexuality, rape/mutilation, and Character Death. It is very graphic at parts; if you are bothered by any of the above-mentioned themes, please do not read this! And no, none of the original characters are based on real people, they were created for an experiment in psychology. If you think I'm sick and twisted for writing something like this at age seventeen, oh, well. Not everybody lives a normal happy life.

Chapter 1- Last Chances Not Taken

_8 murders_

_8 messages_

_3 months_

_0 leads_

_1 killer_

"Yeah, thanks," Don Eppes ran his hand through his hair as he hung up the phone.

"Police found another Notebook victim, Terry," He called to his partner from his office. He saw Terry's usually bright eyes darken.

"That makes eight, Don," Terry said. "He has one more, and we lose all trace of him."

Don rose from his chair, and put on his jacket. He sighed deeply, knowing what awaited him.

"Come on. Let's go."

The Raleigh house was a small white house with light blue shutters in the quiet suburbs. It was hardly the place for the murder of a fifteen-year-old girl by the name of Nicole Raleigh. But, for Don, there was no place suitable for murder.

Don ducked under the police tape that surrounded the Raleigh property and glanced for a moment at the nearly hysterical man and woman just outside the tape.

"Nicole Raleigh's parents," Terry said, stating the obvious for Don. He nodded to her, indicating that she should attempt to speak with them. She glanced at him, and wondered if he was purposely trying to keep her out of the house. She knew what lay inside, and knew it was as much of a nightmare for him as it was for her, if not more.

Don entered the house, and began walking down a hall, where he could see the bright flashes of cameras photographing the scene of the crime. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was an FBI agent, and was trained to handle even the most horrible of situations.

Yet, every time he looked at the handiwork of the serial rapist and murderer known only as the Notebook Killer, he felt incredibly sick. He had seen many murdered rape victims before, some more mutilated than this corpse before, but something was different about this killer.

He stared at the naked body on the bed, surrounded by a pool of blood. He looked at holes in the girl's body, the knife wounds on her stomach, her thighs, and her breasts. Her wrists were raw from being handcuffed to her bedposts. He gazed at the pool of blood between her spread legs, and tried hard not to imagine the girl being raped with a knife. He watched as a CSI gently swabbed her stomach, which was covered with milky white seminal fluid.

"He raped her, killed her, and ejaculated on her," Terry said from behind him. "Just like the other seven victims. I tried talking with the parents. They aren't ready, Don."

"Has anyone checked for the note?" Don asked, and silence fell over the room.

"I'll check," a young CSI said. Don thanked him, already pitying the man.

The CSI got on his knees, kneeling in between the corpse's legs. He pulled a pair of tweezers from his kit, and Don could see he was trembling. Then, inching forward slowly, he inserted his tweezers into the girl's vagina. He tugged gently, and out came a rolled up laminated piece of paper, covered in fresh blood. The CSI put a hand to his mouth, obviously upset.

"Why don't you take a break?" Don suggested to the sickened CSI, who nodded in agreement. He handed Don the tweezers and left on shaky legs.

Don unrolled the piece of paper, and wiped away the blood with a gloved thumb. As he suspected, the note had been typed.

"Nine times FUCKED!

Nine times KILLED!

Bleeding virgins wail

Only one sacrifice remains…"

"Terry, will you take care of this?" Don asked, handing her the still bloodstained paper. Terry nodded.

"You alright, Don?" she asked.

"No. Why the hell would I be alright? This guy has killed eight women in three months, and we can't find a fucking thing on him." Don walked out of the Raleigh house, disgusted and frustrated.

Jenna Sanders, Krystal Olivine, Dana Klein, Angela Ramos, Molly Hill, Helene White, Flora Peterson, and now Nicole Raleigh. Don stared at the dead faces of eight women. The youngest was thirteen-year-old Flora Peterson, and the oldest was forty-five year old Helene White. What was the connection between them?

Twenty-four year old Jenna Sanders, a tall Caucasian female found dead in her bedroom on March 6, 2005. Don remembered how his stomach had turned as he had first seen the work of the Notebook Killer. In all his years of working at the FBI, he had never seen something so disturbing, so cruel.

When the murder of thirty-four year old Krystal Olivine came on March 15th, Don knew that this case would not end well. The killer was smart, as well as cold. Murder/Rapes were usually crimes of passion, but the Notebook Killer tortured and executed his victims with a meticulousness that passion could not achieve. Krystal Olivine's crime scene was identical to Jenna Sanders'.

Twenty-year-old Caucasian Dana Klein on March 30th and forty year old Hispanic Angela Ramos on April 6th only confirmed Don's fears. The Notebook Killer didn't use a gun to torture or kill, so even if he had one, it couldn't be traced; he used a simple hunting knife to object rape his victims. Though there was evidence he used handcuffs, he never left them at the crime scene. The DNA left behind in his semen was untraceable; he hadn't committed a crime until his Notebook killings. Even the laminated notebook paper from which his nickname was derived that he left inside his every one of his victims was untraceable. He always typed his messages, and they were always the same, except the last line, which was a count down from nine. There was nothing special about the tools he used; only the way he used them.

Seventeen-year-old Molly Hill's body had been mutilated just like all his other victims. Her breasts had been slashed, her thighs and vagina as well, and her stomach stabbed. Coroners said that the killing blow in all the murders had been the wound sustained to the stomach. Molly Hill had bled out on her bed slowly, unable to cry out for help. Her parents had been away the weekend of the 9th and 10th. Don had learned one new thing from that murder, that the Notebook Killer would stalk his victims and learn when they were most vulnerable. Helene White had lived alone, and Flora Peterson had been left home when her parents had gone to the movies. Don remembered Flora's parents when they had identified her only three days before, on the thirteenth of April. Her father had left the room, while her mother had collapsed to the floor, sobbing and screaming for her little girl.

There was no connection between any of them, save for the fact they were all women living in L.A. None of them knew each other. The only thing that linked them was that they had drawn the attention of a disturbed killer.

"I talked with the parents, Don," Terry said, sitting down in front of his desk. "They said they were out grocery shopping for about a half hour. They saw her door was closed, and assumed that she was asleep in bed. When she didn't come down for breakfast the next morning, they found out she was dead."

"That's the fastest he's ever done it before," Don commented.

"He's always done it fast; he's just never given himself such a short time limit before. A half hour isn't very long, considering all that he does."

"I still don't understand how he's able to subdue them so fast. It blows my mind how they allow him to cuff them so quickly."

"Maybe they're held at gunpoint," Terry suggested.

"Maybe. And where the hell's a pattern? It's almost as if he picks his victims at random."

"That doesn't make sense. Everything else is so well planned; choosing a random woman in the crowd would contradict the way he thinks." Terry, as a psychologist, had spent hours upon hours studying the case, analyzing the mind of the killer. She had determined that he was obsessive-compulsive, as his scrupulous planning and execution proved. He also had an especially strong obsession with sex, which Terry had drawn from the location of the wounds on the body. He had a strong desire to dominate, and ritualistic tendencies. Anything and everything he did had a purpose.

"So what is it?" Don asked, staring at the mutilated bodies of the eight women once again.

"Don, I don't know. No social connections, no race connections, no age connections… I can't tell you how they all are connected. The Notebook Killer sees something similar in all of them, though. Maybe it's something about their personality. He does stalk them, you know."

"Helene White was a quiet Christian woman living alone. Angela Ramos was living with another woman, and Dana Klein was a stripper. I don't think they had anything in common," Don countered sourly. Terry shook her head.

"You know, Don," she began slowly, "there might be a way to find a pattern. You might not like it, though."

"How? I'm open to anything right now," Don said.

"Hey, guys," a bright, youthful voice said just as Terry began to open her mouth. Terry turned and saw it was Don's younger brother, the mathematician Charlie Eppes. He smiled warmly at Terry and Don, not noticing their frustration.

"Hey, Charlie," Don said without much happiness in his voice. He quickly closed the folders, hiding the pictures of the Notebook Killer victims from him.

Charlie glanced at his brother, looking a little hurt. He was much younger than Don, and had grown up very sheltered. His naiveté blinded him to a lot, including Don's overprotection of him.

"Charlie! We were just talking about you," Terry began.

"We were?" Don looked up sharply.

"Yes. I was just going to suggest to you that we get Charlie involved in the case."

"Really?" Charlie said, his eyes lighting with excitement. Over the past few years, he had helped Don with several difficult cases, using his knowledge of math and logic to find patterns in criminal activity.

"Yes. We've been having a hard time finding any patterns in-"

"Terry," Don interrupted. Terry turned to look at him as he rose. "I don't think we need his expertise in this one."

"But, Don-" Terry began.

"Charlie, I'm sorry she brought it up. This case is a cinch; don't worry about it. What did you come down here for?" Don asked, hoping his brother would forget about the case. As he gazed in Charlie's brown eyes, he saw confusion.

"Alright. If you don't need me then…" Charlie turned around and began to walk away, his head hanging.

Don swore under his breath. He didn't want Charlie to think he didn't want him to help; to tell the truth, he could have really used Charlie's brilliant mind. Terry was right; if anyone could find a pattern in the murders, it was Charlie.

"Charlie, wait!" Don caught up with his brother and stopped him. "Charlie, I'm sorry."

"Oh, it's okay, Don," Charlie lied.

"No it's not. The reason I want you to stay off this case is not because I don't want you around. I love having you around here, little brother." Charlie glanced up, surprised.

"Why, then?" He asked.

Don stopped for a moment. He could lie to his brother.

"I don't think I'm comfortable showing you some of the evidence on this case. It's a murder and rape case." Don decided it was best to tell the truth. Charlie would be able to tell if he was lying anyway.

"Don, I can handle it. I've seen a lot here, you know," Charlie said defensively.

_Oh, Charlie, you're so naïve_, Don thought to himself.

"This one's different. Even Terry's struggling with it," Don lied. While Terry was saddened and disgusted with it, he knew she wasn't spending all her free time staring at the crime scene photographs like he was. He knew she wasn't thinking about it constantly, wasn't waiting for the next victim to appear, and wasn't having frequent nightmares about it like he was.

"Wow," Charlie said. "It must be a hard case."

Suddenly, his eyes were full of compassion. He knew it was Don, not Terry, who was struggling. Don hated to admit his weakness. Even as a boy, he would pretend that beestings or basketball injuries didn't really hurt. When their mother had died, Charlie had only seen Don cry once, and he had been the only witness to his brother's tears. He hadn't even cried at the funeral.

"Don't worry about it. We'll get him soon. Is that why you came here?" Don asked, desperate to change the subjects. He felt embarrassed that his brother had been able to sense his lie.

"Dad wanted to know if you were coming to dinner tonight."

"I don't know…" Don began.

Charlie's eyes dimmed with disappointment. "Right, I'll tell him. Say goodbye to Terry for me."

"See you, buddy," Don said, in a half attempt to apologize. He hadn't been over for dinner ever since the Notebook Killings had begun.

"Bye," Charlie said.

"Charlie," Don called after him.

"Yeah, Don?"

"Maybe tomorrow night. No, not maybe. I promise. Tomorrow night."

"Fine," Charlie walked away, sounding no more exuberant than he had before.

_Why does he do this? _Charlie asked himself. _Why does he shut me out?_

Chapter 2: The Shift should be up in a few days/weeks. Thanks for reading!


	2. The Shift

Chapter 2: The Shift

"What was that about, Don?" Terry asked once Don had returned. "This case is a cinch? Are we working the same case?"

"Terry, I don't want Charlie working this one. It's too rough," Don said.

"He's handled tough cases like this before. For God's sakes, the first case you two worked on together was a murder and rape."

"I just don't think he can handle it right now." Terry suddenly placed a hand on Don's shoulder.

"Don, I don't think this is about Charlie. Am I right?" She asked, her voice softer.

Don rolled his eyes. It was Terry's counselor voice. In college, Terry had trained to become a counselor before deciding that criminal profiling for the FBI suited her better. Every once in a while, if she knew he was upset, she would take on the "counselor voice-" the soft, gentle voice that tried to probe his emotions. He hated it when she did that. The last time she had used that voice was not long after his mother's funeral. It had made him feel weak.

"Don, I think you're starting to make this case a little too personal."

"Oh, excuse me for feeling sorry for a fifteen year old girl who had a knife shoved up her-"

"Don't you dare and try to make me look like an insensitive bitch! Yes, I feel sorry for the victims. But Don, you are letting this case control you. You're here early in the morning, and you leave later than I do. You haven't seen your father in months, and you just completely blew Charlie off. When work starts to interfere with your personal life, it's time to step away."

Don stared hard at Terry. She was bold to suggest stepping away; Don had never responded well to that notion.

"You're suggesting I pass the case off? No. There is no way in hell I'm going to do that. We can't afford to. I know this case better than anyone else does; I have the best chance of breaking it!"

"Don, you're obsessed with this case. Now, I don't know why; you probably don't even know why, but you better step back for a second and consider the consequences of letting yourself get too involved, especially if this guy gets away."

"He's not going to get away," Don countered. "I'm going to get the sick bastard."

Terry sighed, frustration growing. There was no talking to the eldest Eppes brother.

"Fine, Don. But if something happens, don't say you weren't forewarned."

"Warning noted. Now, do you want to talk to her parents, or do you want to check out the coroner's report?"

"Parents. They should be in better shape than they were earlier."

"I came in to wake her up for breakfast. I always do that; Nicky is… I mean… she wasn't a morning person," Sarah Raleigh said wiping away tears with a tissue. Terry nodded. As she had suspected, the parents weren't much help at all.

"And you hadn't noticed anything strange? Was she acting differently; did she have some new friends; anything at all?"

"No. She was happy." Mark Raleigh shook his head.

"Wait. There was something, Mark," Sarah said. She turned to look at Terry. "Nicky mentioned something strange happened at school."

Terry opened up her notebook. It was probably nothing, but at least it was something to write down.

"Nicky said she and her friends were hanging out at the school's steps when this man approached them. He asked them if he could take pictures of them."

"When was this?"

"Friday. The girls let him; they figured it was for yearbook or something."

_That was the day of the murder_, Terry thought, scribbling down the information.

"She said he told them to continue talking, so it could look natural."

"Mrs. Raleigh, did Nicole happen to mention any of the girls with her?"

"June Turner." Mr. Raleigh answered for his wife. "June was her best friend. I'm sure she would have been with her. Do you think that the photographer did this?"

"I can't tell you, Mr. Raleigh. We're just checking out all leads."

"Yeah, I remember that guy," 15-year-old June Turner said. "He was a little weird."

"Do you remember what you and Nicole were talking about when he was taking pictures?" Terry asked. She had driven to the Turner residence to speak with the teenager. She glanced at the girl's parents, who hovered in the next room, listening in. They seemed afraid to leave June alone.

"Um, we talked about what we were going to do that night. I was going to the movies with my boyfriend, and she was staying home."

"Did she talk about her parents going grocery shopping?"

"Actually, yeah, she did. Why?"

"June, I need you to give me a complete description of the man. Better yet, why don't you come with me?"

"Not much different from the others," the coroner said to Don. "No foreign chemicals in the bloodstream. COD is exsanguination, chiefly from the wound to the abdomen. "

Don looked at the girl's face. Her skin was pale, and dark ringlets framed the small face.

"Stomach and liver were punctured, as well as the left lung. Thighs were slashed, though no major arteries were damaged. Her vagina was ruptured, presumably by one stab wound."

"Was she raped in any other way?" Don asked softly.

"No. The fluid found on her was indeed semen, and I was told the DNA matches the others. That's pretty much it."

"Thanks." The coroner nodded, and left Don alone with the young girl's corpse.

"Why you?" He whispered. He put his hand to the girl's cheek. Her skin was smooth, but cold. He closed his eyes, for only a moment.

"Oh, God," he whispered when he opened them. Instead of the pretty face of Nicole Raleigh, he saw the face of Charlie Eppes. He closed his eyes again, taking a deep breath. He needed to be in control. Now was not the time to make this case more personal.

"Don."

Don flinched at the sound of Terry's voice from behind him. Abruptly, his hand dropped from the corpse's face and he turned to look at Terry. He saw deep concern in her eyes.

"What?" He asked, choking down his emotions.

"We have a possible suspect."

"A name?" Don asked, his heart leaping with hope.

"Just a face right now. One of Nicole's friends said a strange man took pictures of them the day of the murder. She said he could have overheard them talking about Nicole's parents going out that night. We have a sketch artist with her right now."

The morgue's doors opened just as Terry finished speaking to reveal a very solemn David Sinclair.

"Oh, shit," Don murmured.

"We just got a call from LAPD. Said they found a young woman stabbed multiple times in her bedroom. No signs of struggle, but they said her wrists showed evidence of restraints."

"Have they processed the crime scene yet?" Don asked, his voice hoarse.

"They're waiting for us."

Charlie Eppes sighed as he walked down the hall at CalSci. Ever since that morning, he hadn't been able to focus. All he could think about was the stress on his brother's face and in his voice. He felt completely helpless. He wanted to help Don, but he kept pushing him away. Why? What about the case was bothering Don so much?

"Professor Eppes?" A quiet voice called ahead of him. Charlie looked up and smiled.

"Keith! How are you?" Keith Brown smiled back. He was a new student at CalSci, but Charlie had already taken a liking to him. He was young, even for a college student, bright, and exuberant.

"I'm good. Well, sort of. I'm having difficulty solving one of the problems you gave us on Monday."

"Would you like me to help you out a bit?" Charlie offered. Keith smiled.

"That would be great."

"Professor Eppes!" Another voice called, this one unfamiliar. Charlie turned to see a man in his mid-twenties, holding a camera.

"Can I help you?" Charlie asked. The man smiled and offered his hand, which Charlie took. He was almost a head taller than Charlie, with dark blonde hair and grey eyes.

"My name's Raymond Leary and I work for the CalSci Press. I'm taking pictures of students and teachers this week. Do you mind if I take a picture of you and…"

"Keith Brown," Keith answered, shaking Raymond's hand.

"Sure, why not?" Charlie answered. Charlie stood next to Keith and smiled for Raymond as he took three or four shots.

"Thanks," Raymond said, and walked away.

"Anyway," Charlie began, "Let's talk about this in my classroom where we can have some peace."

"Professor, is there something wrong?" Keith asked a few moments later. "You seem really distracted."

Charlie smiled. The student was perceptive.

"Do you have an older brother, Keith?"

"No. I'm the eldest."

"Well, my brother, Don, is an FBI agent as you know."

"Yeah, you help him out with a lot of the cases. You solve most of them, don't you?" Keith said, his eyes flashing with excitement.

"Some of them. Anyway, he won't let me go near this one case he's working on, and I can't figure out why. I know it's a hard one, but I've helped him out with some pretty rough cases."

"Maybe he's just trying to protect you," Keith suggested.

"I guess, but does he have to be so… so… angry about it?"

"I know sometimes when I'm trying to protect my little brother, I can get very angry, especially when they really want to know what I'm protecting them from. Just give him time, Professor. He'll figure out you're strong enough to handle whatever it is, I'm sure of it."

"Ellen Thompson, age 22," David said, as Don crouched next to the dead body. "Single, Caucasian female. Lived alone. Neighbor called it in when she didn't show up for a babysitter job."

Don rubbed his face irritably. The crime scene was identical to the others. Stab wounds on the breasts, stomach, and thighs. Her wrists were bloody from her desperate struggle against the handcuffs that had restrained her.

"Don," Terry said. "We have a note."

Don took the rolled up note from Terry, trying to maintain control over his rising anger and frustration, as well as the hopelessness of the situation.

"Nine times FUCKED!

Nine times KILLED!

Bleeding virgins wail

Diana is freed…"

"Diana," Terry murmured. She took the note from Don abruptly, her mind whirling.

"I think I know why he kills," Terry murmured. "Whoever this Diana is, he's killing these girls for her. He might be trying to please her. He could see her as a goddess, and is making blood sacrifices to appease her."

"That's twisted," David commented. "What's our next move, Don?"

Don didn't answer. Instead, he left the room.

"Don," Terry called after him, following him to the kitchen of the apartment.

"God damn it!" Don said suddenly, and kicked the wall, his rage finally exploding. "We lost him. I lost the bastard!"

"Don, calm down," Terry ordered firmly. She could not have her partner act in such a way. "We're going to find this guy."

"It's over, Terry. It's over. He's done. He's going to disappear again, and we won't find him." The rage peaked again as he thought of the nine faces of the victims. "Damn it."

"Good," Terry said. Don glanced up in disbelief.

"Good? Good? How can losing a killer be fucking good?" Don asked, his voice high.

"I'd rather lose a killer than lose my partner," Terry answered solidly. "You're scaring me, Don. I've never seen you so stressed out before over a case. Why don't you take this chance to relax, to calm down? Have dinner with your dad, or something."

"Shit, I forgot," Don murmured, suddenly recalling Charlie's invitation. He glanced at his watch. It was five' o'clock.

"Don," Terry said, looking at him urgently. "Why don't you go now? I'll process the scene, and get it to you tomorrow. Tomorrow, you'll be refreshed and calm, and ready to handle this case. Okay?"

Don paused before answering. He knew he needed to get away from the case. He knew he should see his father and brother. But he felt that if he left, the case would fall apart.

"Don't worry, Don. David and I can handle this." Terry smiled, watching her partner's eyes, silently praying that her words were getting through. She could still see a vestige of that haunted look that had filled his eyes back at the morgue.

"Alright," Don said slowly. Terry broke into a huge smile, relief flooding through her.

"Thank you, Don."

"But if anything comes up, you'll call me, right?" Don said, preparing to leave the apartment.

"Of course, Don," Terry said emphatically. "Now, hurry up, before you miss dinner."

Don smiled, and for the briefest of moments felt some anxiety deep within him release.

"Did you talk to Don today, Charlie?" Alan asked, taking a seat at his dinner table. Charlie nodded without much enthusiasm.

"He said he'd be over for dinner tomorrow. He promised."

"Well, at least he's going to try, Charlie," Alan said, trying to encourage his youngest son. He knew how much Charlie loved to have dinner with his father and brother. The mathematician adored Don as much he adored his father, if not more. It brought him down when Don didn't keep his promises.

"You'd think he'd try harder," Charlie mumbled, picking at his food. Alan had made roasted chicken and fried potatoes, in hopes to cheer his son up. He knew Charlie enjoyed both dishes.

"Hey guys," a familiar voice called. Charlie turned to see his older brother, still wearing his FBI jacket.

"Don! What a pleasant surprise," Alan said. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah. We've hit a cold spot in the case, so I'm taking a break. I'm sorry I haven't been over very much…" Don began, trying to sound light. In truth, he was still worried about the case.

"Don't worry about it, Don," Alan said. He had picked up the forced optimism in his son's voice, and could see fatigue and frustration in his face. "You're just in time for dinner."

"Great; I'm starving." Don hadn't had a decent meal since the Notebook Killings had began, and the scent of chicken made his mouth water.

"How's it going, Charlie?" Don asked, sitting next to his brother.

"Good. I'm glad you came tonight, Don," Charlie said, smiling.

"Anything for my little brother," Don said, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"So, what's this case you're working on?" Alan asked, handing Don a plate.

"I don't think it's a good dinner topic, Dad," Don said, eagerly grabbing a fork. He took a bite of the chicken.

"You know I have a strong stomach," Alan said.

"Well, we've been trying to catch this guy who's been murdering women. He's killed nine so far."

"Wow," Alan said.

"Yeah. And we can't find anything on him. We can't trace his DNA or his fingerprints. It's like he doesn't exist."

"Are you sure it's one guy?" Charlie asked. Don nodded, swallowing his potatoes.

"He has a very specific signature. Only one person could maintain the signature so accurately."

"What's his signature?" Alan asked. Don took a deep breath, carefully choosing his words.

"He binds his victim, stabs them a few times, and then leaves a note in them."

"In them?" Charlie asked.

"Yes," Don replied, his tone indicating he did not want to go into any more details.

"No wonder you won't let Charlie on the case," Alan commented.

"Dad!" Charlie said.

"Well, it's true!"

"It doesn't sound too bad," Charlie said defensively. "I could handle it!"

"Charlie, your brother's sugar-coating it," Alan informed him.

"Oh." Charlie's cheeks reddened, for the fact he had missed that embarrassed him.

Thankfully for Don, his cell phone rang. He excused himself.

"Eppes," he said, half-sighing. He had wanted a quiet dinner with his family. But instead, he had gotten a reminder that his case was getting colder by the second.

"It's Terry."

"What's up?"

"They found another body."

"What?" Don said, bewildered.

"It's the same MO. Found in bedroom, use of restraints, similar stab wounds, but…"

"But what?" He demanded. There was a long pause.

"The victim is male."

"How can that be?" Don murmured.

"Don, there's even a note."

"What the hell is he doing?" Don asked.

"I don't know anymore. I'm on my way to the crime scene. Police were already processing it when they found the note. They didn't suspect a connection because it was a male victim, but when they saw the note, they called."

"Alright. Tell them to hold everything until I get down there." Don turned off the phone.

"What's going on, Don?" Alan asked.

"Something's come up. I'll have to finish this later."

"Alright. See you later tonight, then," Alan said, watching as his eldest son left the house.

"What have we got?" Don asked as he got out of his car. Terry had been waiting for him.

"Keith Brown, age seventeen. Lived with his mother, while attending classes at CalSci."

"He's awfully young for that college," Don commented. He ducked under the crime scene tape surrounding the house.

"He graduated three years early from high school and was majoring in some form of math. His mother didn't say," Terry said, reading of her notepad.

Suddenly, a flash in his peripheral caught Don's attention. He turned, and saw someone in the crowd was taking pictures of the house.

"Hey, Terry," he said slowly, not taking his eyes off the man, "Do you happen to have the sketch of the suspect with you?"

"Right here," she said, handing him a copy. He looked at the thin face, the cleft in the chin, and the short cropped hair, and knew that the man photographing the house was the same man who had taken pictures of Nicole Raleigh on her last day.

Don began to walk towards the small gathering of onlookers, slowly unbuttoning his holster. His pace quickened as the man turned, beginning to leave.

"Hey!" Don shouted, beginning to run. Terry began to follow him, her gun out.

Don burst into a sprint, hoping to catch the now running man. The suspect had quite a start on him, however, and was fast for someone of his height.

The man ducked between two houses, causing Don to halt. He drew his gun, and slowly edged up to the corner of the house. He stepped out, ready to fire if necessary. But no one was there.

"What the hell?" He murmured. Where had the man gone?

In the fading sunlight, Don caught a glimpse of something black on the ground. He crouched slowly, keeping an eye open for the suspect. He could hear Terry rounding the corner as he picked up what appeared to be a film canister.

"Did you lose him?" Terry asked.

"Yeah," Don replied. "But he left this behind."

"Let's get that developed."

"I'll do it," Don said. "You handle the body."

Terry glanced at him in surprise. For the past nine murders, all Don had wanted to deal with was the body. Why such a change?

"Are they done yet?" Don asked the lab tech.

"In just a second," the tech replied.

"Don," Terry said, entering the developing room. "Here's the report for Keith Brown."

"He's killed two people within the same day," Don said. "How is it possible?"

"He didn't. Coroner's report says that Ellen Thompson was dead at least a day before discovery. Keith Brown has only been dead for five hours."

Don opened the manila folder and saw a photo of Keith's body. He nearly dropped it as for a second time that week he saw his brother's face.

"You okay, Don?" Terry asked.

"Yeah," Don said, swallowing hard.

"He reminds you of Charlie, doesn't he?" Terry said softly. She had finally figured out why Don had taken the case so personally. Most of the victims had dark hair, and quite a few of them had curly hair as well.

"Yeah." There was a long silence.

"Charlie looked almost exactly like him at seventeen," Don said.

"But he's not Charlie, Don," Terry said. "Remember that."

"They're done," the lab tech said, handing Don some photos.

"Holy shit," Don said, for the first photo was that of Jenna Sanders, smiling with her arm around a friend.

"It's got to be him, Don," Terry said as Don showed the second photo, which was another picture of Jenna, only this time she was dead, her body mutilated.

"These are before and after shots," Don said, he looked at two pictures for each victim.

"He's showing us what he's capable of," Terry said. Suddenly, Don froze.

"What is it, Don? Don?"

Don looked up at her, his eyes wide with fear and shock. He raised a photo to her sight, and suddenly Terry knew why Don looked so terrified.

The photo was that of Keith Brown at CalSci. He was smiling while leaning against a wall. But what terrified Don was the fact that Keith Brown stood next to his smiling brother, Charlie.

Chapter 3: Cold Realization, will be up in a few days/weeks. Thanks for reading!


	3. Cold Realization

Chapter 3- Cold Realization

"Charlie, for the last time, Pi is not a real word!" Alan exclaimed, taking the letter "i" off the Scrabble board.

"It is, Dad; it's in the dictionary for crying out loud!" Charlie countered, putting it back on. Alan sighed. There was no arguing with the boy.

"Fine. But I'm adding two 'l's, an 'o,' a 'w,' and an 's' onto it. Triple word score, thank you very much."

"Man," Charlie muttered. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was losing a simple game like Scrabble to his father.

"So do you think Don will come to dinner tomorrow night, Charlie?" Alan asked, watching Charlie squint at the letters, trying to make a word out of them.

"I don't know, Dad," Charlie said. "He didn't exactly have a pleasant dinner with us tonight."

Just as Alan was about to answer, Don broke into the room, gun in hand. His father rose in surprise. Charlie, however, remained seated, terrified by the look of fear in his older brother's eyes.

"What the hell are you doing, Don?" Alan demanded. "Put that gun away!"

"Are you two alone?" Don said, scanning the room. "Have you had any company? Weird phone calls?"

"We're the only ones here. J-just a few telemarketers," Charlie asked, overcoming his shock. "What's going on?"

"Alright. You're coming with me, Charlie," Don said, holstering his gun.

"What?" Alan said. "Don, you're going to tell me what's going on."

"You're coming too, Dad," Don replied. "I'll explain when we get to the office."

"So you've never seen her before," Don said, holding up a picture of Jenna Sanders. Charlie shook his head.

"How about her?" Don went through all nine female victims. Charlie didn't even recognize one.

"Him?" Don said, showing a picture of Keith Brown. Charlie's eyes widened.

"Yes. He's my student. What does he have to do with these women?" Charlie asked confused.

"He's dead, Charlie. Killed by the same man who killed the women in these pictures."

"Oh," Charlie said, leaning back. He didn't know how to respond. He had lost a student before, but had never had one murdered.

"What can you tell me about him?" Don said gently. Now that he knew his father and brother were safe, he felt much calmer.

"He was a good student. Young, but a quick study. Very perceptive, very friendly, but he didn't have any close friends at the college. He told me he didn't come to college for a social life, though, so he didn't mind. He never got into trouble of any sort. I don't understand. How could he… I mean… " Charlie leaned forward.

Suddenly, Alan stepped forward, placing his hands on his youngest son's shoulders protectively. He looked at Don, a hint of anger in his eyes.

"Enough questions, Don. I want answers. Why are we here?"

Don pulled out the photo taken of Charlie and Keith, and showed it to Alan.

"This photo was taken by an unnamed suspect in my case. It was found with several other pictures, pictures of the other nine victims taken of them before and after their murders. Now do you understand?"

"Oh, my God," Alan said, looking down at Charlie. Charlie stared at the picture of him and Keith, obvious fear in his eyes.

"Do you think-" Alan began.

"I don't know, Dad." Don said, sitting down. "A lot of the victim's pictures were taken with friends. Charlie could be a target, though."

"I remember the guy who took this picture," Charlie said. Don glanced at his brother, and pulled out a sketch of the killer.

"Is this him?" Charlie nodded. The same man who had smiled at him and his student, who had shaken their hands so enthusiastically…

"He said he worked for CalSci Press. He was taking pictures of students and teachers."

"Did he happen to mention a name, Charlie?" Don asked.

"Yes. Raymond Leary. He said that was his name."

"Raymond Leary," Don muttered. He pulled out his cell phone, dialing Terry's number. He turned when he heard a cell phone ring.

"I'm right here, Don," Terry said. She nodded at Charlie and Alan, then turned back to face Don. "The coroner wants to talk to you."

"I haven't had time," Don replied. "You two stay put. Terry, look at the rest of the photos, and tell David to get an APB out for a Raymond Leary. I want to get a good picture of him, so see if you can find anything on him. I'll be back, Dad, Charlie."

Terry looked through the rest of the photos, starting with the picture of Charlie and Keith. They could have easily been mistaken for brothers; it was disturbing.

The next picture was of just Keith, his dead body bloodstained and naked. She quickly went to the next picture, for she could sense Alan was looking as well.

It was a picture of a boy, about twelve years old, holding a fluffy gray cat. His big toothy grin would have made Terry smile, had she not known that the boy was most likely Raymond Leary's target.

"David," she called, noticing the tall, handsome agent passing by. David turned.

"We know who the next victim is. See if you can put a name to this face, after you get the APB out," Terry said. David nodded.

"Will do."

She looked at the last picture. It was of her and Don, at the latest crime scene.

"He might be a maniac, but he's a great photographer," Alan commented, startling her. "He knows how to capture emotions."

Terry smiled at him, then turned to Charlie. Charlie was still looking downward, caught up in grief for his student.

"Charlie, do you think you could help me?" She said, bring him out of his thoughts.

"How so?"

"Well, Don and I have not been able to find a pattern in the victims. Do you think you could help me?"

"Does Don want my help?" Charlie asked cautiously. He did not wish to upset Don any more than he already was.

"He _needs_ your help, Charlie." Charlie closed his eyes for a moment, considering the possibilities.

"I'll help." Terry smiled.

"Thank you so much, Charlie."

"Your victim was treated in the same manner as the other victims. He was restrained, and his stomach, liver, and right and left lung were stabbed. I counted about thirty to forty separate slashes on each thigh. The penis was slashed as well, almost to the point of emasculation. The semen found on his body matches that of the other victims."

"So, it was the exact same style," Don said, looking at the mutilated body.

"There were some differences however, and one was the location of the note."

"Obviously," Don said. "Where did they find it?"

"In the navel," the coroner said, using two fingers to spread the navel. Don could see the stab wound was deep.

"I extracted this from it." The coroner handed him a laminated piece of notebook paper.

"I thought the police had already removed the note," Don said, putting on a pair of gloves.

"They did. This is a second note, placed deeper than the other one." He handed the note to the agent.

"You can follow, but never lead

You think you chase me

When in truth, I hunt you

It won't be long till I turn

And reveal a bleeding face

My game's just beginning

I'll always say hello, goodbye

But you'll bid farewell

When I disappear again"

"I'd better get this to Terry," Don murmured.

"She's the cute psychologist, right?" The coroner asked. Don grinned.

"Yeah."

"What a nice looking chick. Is she looking or-"

"Trust me, she isn't looking," Don said.

"I guess so. Chicks like her always go for the ones with the guns and handcuffs."

"Um, you said there were other differences," Don said in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

"Oh, yeah. I found small cuts all over the kid's chest," he said, pointing to the red cuts. "I found they were surrounded by a thick, sticky clear substance."

"What was it?" Don asked, not sure if he wanted to know.

"Saliva. Very vampiric, if you ask me." Don shuddered as he imagined Raymond Leary sucking on the cuts, enjoying the student's pain.

"I checked out Raymond Leary, Don," Terry said, holding a manila folder, entering the morgue for the second time that day. She handed it to Don.

"Raymond Leary, 25. Eldest of four children. He was raised here in L.A., didn't attend college. He owns a 1994 white Taurus, and that's pretty much all we know about Leary today."

"What do you mean, 'today?'" Don asked, confused. Terry handed him a second folder. Don opened it up to reveal a man whose face was similar to Raymond Leary's, but a bit harsher and older.

"This is Simon Leary. Convicted on two counts of murder, four counts of child molestation."

"Let me guess. He molested all four of his kids," Don said.

"And killed two of them, the two youngest. George, and Diana."

"Diana? Do you think she's the one in the note?" Terry nodded.

"Most definitely. It makes a lot of sense. The victims are raped and killed, just like Diana was. It also would explain his ritualistic sense. I think he's killing them for sacrifices in order to 'free' Diana. Whether that means bringing her back to life or something more spiritual, I don't know."

"And Raymond was molested as well," Don said. "That might explain why he likes to rape both men and women. Where's Simon today? Still in jail, or-"

"Suicide. Hung himself in the jail cell."

"They didn't put him on suicide watch?"

"They didn't think they had to. Even though he told one of the officers he wouldn't let them punish him."

"Great. He's a multiple rapist and murderer who's possibly suicidal. Did you get an address for Raymond Leary?"

"Yeah. I already had a team sent over. They didn't find much. He's not living there, that's for sure. So, what did you get?"

"Here, check this out," Don said as he handed Terry the note. "What do you make of it?"

Terry read over the note before answering Don. He noticed her face was a shade paler than before.

"I don't like this. He's trying to involve you more. He's trying to make this personal not only for him but for you as well. He's turning it into a game, and he's trying to manipulate you. For what reason, I don't know. But it's safe to say that he is threatening you. Why don't you spend the night at the office with your father and Charlie? Just to be safe. Please. For me."

Don stared at her, slightly caught off guard. She had been so protective of him lately.

"Fine."

Charlie skimmed through the data from each crime scene, analyzing it swiftly and silently. He could see why Don didn't want him involved; the pictures were indeed disturbing.

"Oh, my God," Alan said behind him. Startled, Charlie closed the folder.

"Dad-"

"Are they crime scene photos?" Alan asked, his face pale.

"Yeah. They turn my stomach, just looking at them," Charlie admitted.

"Well, don't look at them then," Alan said. All Charlie's life, Alan had done his best to protect Charlie from the world's brutality and sheer cruelty. And even though Charlie was a grown man, Alan couldn't help but try to protect him still.

"No, it's okay. They help. I'm trying to find a pattern in the murders, and sometimes the way the bodies are… uh, positioned helps me. Besides, Don has to look at them."

"Because it's Don's job too."

"He had to look at this kind of stuff when he was in the academy fifteen years ago. He was younger than I am when he first had to deal with this stuff."

"Charlie, you and Don are two different people."

"Are you saying I'm weaker than Don?" Charlie asked, looking down.

"Of course not!" Alan blurted out.

"I'm strong, Dad. I might not like conflict, but that's because I think there's a painless solution to everything. If I ever got into trouble, I could handle it. I don't need Don's or your protection."

"I believe you, Charlie," Alan said. "But sometimes, even if there is a painless solution to a problem, we have to use other ways. Don understands that. And that's why he protects you."

"What are you guys talking about?" Don asked, walking into the room. Charlie attempted to hide the folders.

"Uh, nothing, Don," Charlie said.

"Well, I'm going to find place to sleep. Goodnight, you two," Alan said. Don nodded goodnight, distracted by Charlie's

"Wait. What's that you're looking at?" Don said.

"It's nothing," Charlie said. Don snatched up one of the files, opened it up, and was greeted by the dead face of Angela Ramos.

"What the hell are you doing?" Don demanded angrily.

"I was just analyzing the data," Charlie said. "I was trying to help."

"Yeah, well, I don't want your help." Don grabbed the rest of the folders.

"Don, why don't you want me to help? I could save you a lot of time and work. Are you trying to protect me?"

"No," Don said, shaking his head. He began to walk away. Charlie grabbed his arm, catching the agent of guard. It was not like Charlie to act this way.

"Tell me why you keep pushing me away, Don," Charlie said, his eyes hard.

"I'm not pushing you away," Don countered, shaking off Charlie's hold. "It's just a hard case."

"Bullshit," Charlie snapped. Don turned to look at his little brother. He had never heard Charlie swear like that before, not in a long time.

"You are pushing me away because you think I'm weak-"

"That's not it," Don interrupted.

"I'm not weak, Don. God, why do you people think I'm weak?"

"You're not," Don said, but Charlie was not listening.

"You must think I'm weak because you won't let me look at crime scene photos because you'll think I run away crying, or throw up like I did in the Charm School Boys' case. You think I'm a complete wimp, that I'm-"

"I don't want you involved in the case because every time I look at these pictures I see you!" Don shouted. Charlie stepped back, startled by the outburst.

"When I first investigated Jenna Sanders' death, I kept on seeing you. It made me sick to my stomach. It shook me up, Charlie. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, Charlie."

"Don…" Charlie's voice trailed off. He had never seen Don so upset.

"And now, this bastard's going after men! You have no idea what it felt like for me to see you in that picture with Keith Brown. Do you know what he does to his victims; this Raymond Leary? He handcuffs them, he stabs them, he rapes them, and then he finally kills them! All that keeps going through my head is 'what if he had decided to go after you than Keith Brown?' I wouldn't be able to handle it, Charlie. I lost Mom; I can't lose you too." Don stared at his little brother, and took a deep breath. Three months of frustration and fear had finally been released; he wished it hadn't been loosed upon Charlie.

"I see," Charlie said slowly, not sure how to respond.

There was a long stretch of silence between the brothers. And for the first time in a long time, it was an uncomfortable silence.

"You should get some sleep, Charlie," Don said, finally in control. Charlie laughed nervously.

I_ need sleep?_ He thought to himself.

"Goodnight, Charlie," Don said, leaving his brother alone.

Don didn't sleep at all that night. Guilt had pierced him. He shouldn't have yelled at Charlie; shouldn't have frightened him like that.

_"…it's time to step away…"_ Suddenly, Terry's words came back to him. Maybe it was time. He wasn't doing Charlie or his father any good, frightening both of them by his armed entrance into the Eppes house earlier that day. He wasn't doing much for the case; if anything, he was hindering it. Charlie could have brought invaluable help to his team. He had given the killer a name, for goodness sake; something Don never would have been able to do. He wasn't helping Terry or David either. Terry was intensely worried about him, and David was left in the dark more often than not.

Don closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. Terry had been right. He was letting this case control him.

"Don." His eyes opened, and saw Terry approaching.

"I'm sorry; were you trying to sleep?" He smiled, taking in her concerned face.

"Not really. What's up?"

"Nothing. I can't sleep either." She seemed like she wanted to talk about something.

"You sure nothing's up, Terry?"

"Well, actually-" Suddenly, Don's cell phone rang. He glanced apologetically at her.

"Excuse me. Eppes. Oh, hell. Already? Okay. We're on our way." Terry shook her head. She knew what that tone in Don's voice meant.

The Notebook Killer had struck again.

"This is the boy in the picture, Don," Terry said, leaning over the small corpse of 12-year-old Tyler Groves.

Don nodded, afraid to speak. He feared that if he spoke, his voice and words would betray his disgust and fatigue.

"We have to stop this, Don," Terry said softly, extracting from the boy's navel a laminated note.

"Twice FUCKED!

Twice KILLED!

Innocence groans,

George is freed…"

"Isn't George the name of one of the murdered Leary children?" David asked, who had finally been briefed by Terry.

"Yeah," she answered. "But it doesn't make sense. George was three, not two."

Don breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. Leary had finished his rampage. Charlie could go home. Quickly, he dialed his brother's cell.

"Charlie Eppes."

"Hey, it's Don. You and Dad can go home." There was a long stretch of silence.

"Okay. Don?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about last night. You didn't need that."

"It's alright, buddy," Don said genuinely. "I shouldn't have acted like such a jerk. I'll see you and Dad tonight, okay? Bye now."

"Don," David said, catching his partner's attention. "I just found out from LAPD that we have a witness."

"A witness?" Don repeated, stunned. "Who?"

"The boy's father."

"Mr. Groves, tell us what happened," Don began, his voice gentle. "Take your time."

Groves took a deep breath. Then he proceeded to tell his horrible tale.

"I had just come home from a walk in the park. I always go for a walk on Thursday evenings. Ty… Tyler was usually home from school by then too, and we would have dinner together. However, the house was completely dark when I came in, so I assumed either Tyler was asleep, or he wasn't home yet. And then I heard… noises."

"What kind of noises, Mr. Groves."

"Muffled sobs. From Tyler's bedroom. I thought he was really upset about something, so I came in. I… I saw him on the bed. He was naked, gagged, and his wrists were handcuffed to the bedposts. But just as I stepped into the room, a man appeared from behind the door with a gun."

"He had a gun, Mr. Groves?" Terry asked. It confirmed her theory of how he was able to subdue his victims so quickly.

"Yes. He told me to sit down on a kitchen chair he had brought into the room or he would shoot both my son and me. So I obeyed. He tied me to it and gagged me as well. And that's when he started calling me dad."

"He called you 'Dad?'" Terry asked. Mr. Groves nodded.

"And he started calling Tyler 'little brother.'" He stopped, his face growing a shade paler.

"Mr. Groves please continue. Everything you tell us brings us closer to catching this guy," Terry said.

"He got on to the bed with Tyler. He… he… he started… touching him. Petting him. He touched my boy and made him cry… oh, God…" Mr. Groves broke down into tears, sobs racking his body.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," Mr. Groves said, for Terry had risen in concern. "I can do this. I can do this. After he was done, he began to… well, you know. The whole time he was screaming 'I want you, Daddy; I want you! I want you to kill me, Daddy; kill me!' Then, he began to stab my son. Tyler was very brave. He didn't cry out anymore; he stopped crying. He just gasped as that man stabbed him again and again. When… when he realized Tyler was… when Tyler was gone, he went up to me. He looked into my eyes and said 'Are you happy, Daddy? Little Diana is dead and George is dying. You killed them. You— he swore then— 'em and you killed 'em. Aren't you happy?' Then he dialed 911, asked for someone and left." Silence filled the room, thick with horror and disgust.

"One last question," Terry said after several long moments. She took out the picture of Raymond Leary. "Is this the man, Mr. Groves?"

Mr. Groves nodded, too horrified to speak. Terry could see this obvious terror and pain in his eyes. That face would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Terry walked over to Don, who stood silently.

"Well, it confirms my theory about why he kills. Don, he only needs one more victim. And he's escalated. He's trying to involve his father now. We need to find Leary now. Don, are you listening?"

"Mr. Groves?" Don asked quietly, speaking for the first time since the questioning had begun.

"Yes?" Mr. Groves said, his voice suddenly weary.

"When he dialed 911, who did he ask for?"

"I'm not sure. It was a strange name like the ginger ale. You know, Schweppes?" Don's eyes widened.

"Mr. Groves, do you think it could have been Eppes?" He asked, his heart skipping a beat.

"That's what it was! Yes. He asked for Eppes, Dr. Charles Eppes."

"Charles?" Don repeated. Suddenly, his insides went cold with fear.

"Yes, I remember now. Now can you please leave my house?"

"Yes. Sorry about that, Mr. Groves," Terry said quickly, for she too had jumped to the same conclusion as Don had.

"Oh, my God." He had been right. If only he had followed his initial instincts… Charlie was Leary's final target. And if Leary continued to escalate as Terry predicted, not only would he kidnap Alan Eppes as well, but he would also kill him!

Don was moving, no longer thinking. He needed to get to his brother and father, before Leary did. He would not let this monster destroy his family.

"Don, stop," Terry said behind him "Don, we need to call for backup. We need to wait for back-"

"I'm not waiting, Terry!" Don snapped, exiting the Groves' house. "My family needs me."

"Don, wait!" Terry cried, but it was too late. Don jumped into the car, and pulled onto the rode, driving like a lunatic.

Chapter 4, Torment, should be up in a few days. Thanks for reading!


	4. Torment

Author's Note- Nonconsensual content ahead. I can't believe I wrote this. If you don't like N/C, just read the first 30 paragraphs or so. I don't know how anyone can read this. I've only read the entire chapter once, and that was when I wrote it.

Chapter 4- Torment

"Dad, I'm really worried about Don," Charlie said, sitting down at the kitchen table with a bowl of soup. Alan smiled sadly.

"You got to understand, Charlie, that every once in a while, Don takes a case too personally."

"But he looked so terrified when he started talking about how the guy goes after curly haired guys now. He even snatched the evidence right out of my hands."

"Now you know how he feels, Charlie," Alan said.

"What do you mean, Dad?"

"Remember that series of bank robberies you two worked on? Remember how you predicted where the next place would be, told Don about it, and everything went bad? You were terrified for days afterward. You started working on the P vs. NP equation thingy like crazy, because you felt guilty that you had put your brother in danger. He feels the same way about you. As his brother, as a professor, and as a math genius, you tend to have a noticeable profile. He probably feels you have become a target because of him."

"And he's absolutely fucking right, Mr. Eppes," a voice growled from the back door. Charlie and Alan both rose, turning to see the pale thin face of Raymond Leary, as well as the barrel of a 357 Magnum.

"Who the hell are you?" Alan said, instinctively stepping between Charlie and the gun.

"I'm the guy who's managed to kill eleven people in three months without getting caught. But more importantly, I'm the guy who's going to kill you. Now, step away from Charlie."

Alan didn't move. His heart was pounding, but he couldn't leave Charlie unprotected. He didn't know what this maniac's interest in Charlie was about, but he didn't want to find out.

"Move, or I'll blow your fucking head off," Leary said, his voice dangerously low.

"Dad, please," Charlie whispered. Alan turned and saw great fear in his son's eyes. "Please move."

Alan moved slowly, his own fear growing. Here he was in his own house, with a gun pointed at him and his son.

"Come here, Charlie," Leary said, his voice now light and happy. Charlie stepped forward, swallowing hard.

"Now turn around." Charlie turned, and flinched as he felt cold steel against his neck. Leary tossed Alan a roll of duct tape with his free hand.

"Mr. Eppes, I want you to walk into Charlie's bedroom. Seat yourself in a chair, and tape yourself to it. If you do anything that seems fishy to me, I will shoot your son and then you. Start walking now." Alan obeyed instantly.

"Follow him, Charlie," Leary said, prodding him with the Magnum. Charlie complied, his entire body trembling. What had Leary done to his other victims that had frightened Don so much? Would it happen to him?

"You know why I picked you? First, I saw Keith. I had already been watching him. But when I saw you in the hall with him, I made the connection that you were Don's brother. It was all too perfect. And it shall end perfectly. Your brother has no clue what's going on yet. By the time he does, I'll be finished."

Charlie walked forward slowly, staring at his father's back, barely acknowledging the killer's words. Why was Leary involving his father? Would he kill him?

"Alright, Charlie," Leary said once they were in Charlie's bedroom. He stepped away from Charlie, retrieved the duct tape from Alan and tossed it onto the bed. "I want you to tape your hands. I want you to lie still on your back, while I fix your dad up. Make any false moves, and his ass is dead. Got it?" Charlie looked at his father, and nodded. He couldn't let anything happen to Alan.

It was difficult to tape both his hands, but somehow he managed to do it. He watched as Leary secured his father to the chair, and then tucked to Magnum into his back pocket.

"All ready, now," he murmured to him. "Charles Eppes, I would like to congratulate you on being my last sacrifice. You seem to be a very brave and brilliant young man. I almost hate to kill you."

"No!" Alan cried. "You sick son of a-"

"Alan Eppes, I would like to congratulate you as well." Leary began, silencing him. "You are an exceptional father. You have raised two very fine boys. You should be proud."

"I am proud," Alan began, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I'm proud of Charlie, and I'm proud of Don. And I'll be even more proud when Don comes and sends your ass to hell."

"He better hope he doesn't show up. If he does, I'll kill you, then I'll kill Charlie, and then I'll kill him. I hate that smug son of bitch. He almost ruined my plans. That bastard!" Suddenly, he drew a knife from his pocket.

"No!" Alan yelled, fearing for his son's life. The knife flashed down, but missed Charlie by millimeters, sinking deep into the mattress.

"There shall be no more restraints, Mr. Eppes. You may scream; I will not gag you. George and Diana are all that matter to me. And when your son's blood spills, they shall come back."

"You think by killing my son, you'll be able to resurrect someone?" Alan asked, unwilling to believe what his ears had heard.

"Not just your son. He might be wonderful, but his blood alone is not enough to bring back my brother and sister."

"Holy shit," Alan murmured. Leary smiled, revealing his crooked yellow teeth.

"It's time to have fun. Are you ready, Dad? Are you ready, Charlie?" He jumped onto the bed, so he was sitting next to Charlie. Charlie looked up at him, the pangs of fear in his belly increasing.

"Oh, now Charlie, don't be scared," he said, beginning to stroke the professor's face. "Daddy won't let anything happen to you."

Charlie shuddered as he felt Leary's other hand slowly slip under his shirt to stroke his lower right abdomen.

"Stop it!" Alan said, as Leary began to sniff Charlie's neck. He nipped it lightly, and Charlie couldn't help but whimper.

"That's right, Charlie, my little puppy dog. Ooh, my big puppy dog!" He said, beginning to laugh, as his hand trailed up the inside of Charlie's thigh. He swung his leg over Charlie's body, straddling his hips. He drew the knife from the mattress.

"Leave him alone!" Alan cried, tears openly falling down his face. He couldn't watch this madman torture his son, his baby boy. He struggled against his restraints, but he couldn't move.

"Leave him alone? But the fun hasn't even started. I won't kill him until he begs to die, until he begs like a penniless whore." He deftly sliced the front of Charlie's shirt away and lightly traced the Eppes' stomach. Charlie flinched, but did not speak. He had a plan.

Even in the midst of the greatest danger he had ever been in, Charlie knew what to do. It was the simplest, most logical way to survive. If he did not beg, he would live. The longer he refused to beg, the more time he gave Don come and rescue them.

But how long could he hold off?

Suddenly, his thoughts evaporated as he felt Leary's mouth enclose a piece of his skin, licking it as he bit. Leary sat up, looking oddly disappointed.

"Needs more flavoring. Perhaps some more… iron!" He said, opening up Charlie's skin. Alan cried out, more loudly than Charlie did, as blood spilled out. The wound thankfully was not deep, but Charlie still hissed in pain as Leary lapped up the blood with his tongue.

"Oh, yes, perfectly seasoned!" He cried, and cut Charlie's chest again.

"You sick son of a bitch, leave him alone!" Alan cried, nearly hysterical.

"What do you say, Charlie? Should I leave you alone?" Leary looked into Charlie's eyes, filled with pain and fear. Charlie refused to speak. His stomach was rolling, his chest was heaving. Though Leary's actions hurt and frightened him, what disgusted him was the fact that this sick son of bitch had aroused him.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Let me get it back for you," Leary said, and kissed Charlie hard on the mouth, forcing his lips open with his tongue.

"Oh, God," Alan murmured, his stomach turning as his son was violated by Leary's kiss. Leary cupped the back of Charlie's head, pulling him closer into the kiss. Charlie struggled with all his might, but he could not fight him off. Leary's hips jerked involuntarily, smacking hard against Charlie.

Alan closed his eyes, tears pouring, as he silently begged for a miracle.

Leary broke the kiss, his breath ragged. Clearly, the experience had aroused him.

"Oh," he murmured. "And this night is just beginning."

Alan opened his eyes, and saw that Charlie was looking at him. He saw the pain, the fear, and the nausea in his son's eyes and his heart broke. Charlie shook his head, and started to cry.

"Please just let him go. Please, I beg you. I'll do anything," Alan said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No," Leary said, laughing. He began to cut Charlie's chest again.

"Stop it." The words were quiet. Leary froze mid-cut.

"What did you say, Charlie?" He asked quietly. Alan's blood froze in his veins.

"Please, stop touching me." Charlie's voice was raw and choked with emotion.

"Oh, but that would ruin all my fun."

"Just, just kill me."

"Charlie," Alan said, his voice breaking. "Charlie, no."

"Please, just kill me." Charlie's quiet voice cracked with emotion. He couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't wait for Don to save him. He wasn't strong enough.

"I don't know…" Leary said, a twisted grin on his face. He played with Charlie's pant zipper tauntingly.

"God damn you; kill me!" Charlie said as loudly as he could.

"As you wish, my love. Are you ready, Daddy?" Leary said, turning to smile at Alan. He raised the knife high above his head.

"NO!" Alan cried, desperate for his child.

...

Ugh, can't believe I wrote that. Chapter 5, The First Consequence will be up in a few days. Thanks for reading!


	5. The First Consequence

Author's Note- This was written late at night, so it's very weird. If it's too weird, let me know. This chapter took about fifteen minutes; most of my chapters I put a good three or four into, not including beta-reading them. Thanks to my way cool friend Ben for the firearm info. And Lisa for the medical stuff.

Chapter 5- The First Consequence

"God, please don't let me be too late," Don whispered as he leapt out of his car, gun in hand. He could not let Leary take his family away from him. He had barely been able to survive the death of his mother. He knew he wouldn't be able to survive the murder of his father and his baby brother.

He entered the house quietly, sweeping the area with his gun. He could hear noises coming from upstairs. His stomach twisted as he realized it was his father shouting.

He knew where they would be. In every case, Leary would rape and murder his victims in their own bedroom. No doubt he had Charlie handcuffed to the bedposts and Alan taped to a chair. Don't heart contracted with pain as he slowly approached the stairs, trying hard not to think about what he was about to see.

Slowly and cautiously, he ascended the stairs, and realized the noise had subsided. Now he could only hear low murmurs. It was Leary, saying something to Charlie. Don vowed that this time Leary would not escape, even if he had to kill him.

"Please, just kill me." Don froze as he heard Charlie's voice.

_Oh, God no_, he thought, his heart beginning to hammer.

"God damn you; kill me!"

_No, no, no!_ He thought, his pace quickening.

"Are you ready, Daddy?" Leary asked. Don had no time to think. His brother was moments away from certain death.

"NO!"

"FBI; freeze!" Don shouted. The knife stopped, no more than an inch away from Charlie's heart.

"Don," Charlie whispered, tears running down his cheeks. Don's heart broke when he saw his bleeding brother pinned under the murderer. No wonder he had asked for death.

"Drop your weapon," Don said firmly, inching forward until he was next to his father. He freed Alan's right arm from its restraints.

"Thank God," Alan whispered.

"You heard me. Drop the weapon or so help me God, I will shoot you," Don threatened, his brown eyes flashing with barely suppressed rage.

"Very well," Leary said. And he plunged the weapon into Charlie's navel.

"CHARLIE!" Alan screamed.

Don's eyes widened in horror as his brother cried out in pain. For a moment, his entire focus shifted to Charlie.

And that one moment was enough for Leary. Leary reached behind his back, drew the Magnum, and fired. The shot was deafening as Don flew back, struck by the powerful force. He landed hard on the floor, and lay there motionless.

Alan stared at his eldest son, his mouth open as if to call his son's name. But no sound came out, for the utmost horror and grief had stripped him of his voice. In less than three seconds, his most precious gifts, his children, had fallen before his eyes.

"Stupid bastard," Leary said.

"You're the stupid bastard," Alan whispered, barely able to speak. He turned to Leary, his eyes dark with anger. "You think that by killing my sons, you'll be able to see your brother and sister. You think that by murdering, raping, and torturing innocent men and women you'll bring them back. Well I have news for you, you sick bastard," Alan said, his voice thick with grief and rage. "You'll never see your brother and sister again. They're dead; and killing others will only drive them further away from you. They hate you!"

"Shut up! That's not true!" Leary said, his gun hand beginning to tremble.

"Every word of it is true. So go ahead and kill me if you want, because you'll never see your siblings ever again!"

"No!" Leary screamed, and began to pull the trigger. Alan closed his eyes.

"Dad!"

Gunfire erupted once more in the Eppes' house. Though, this time, it was not the deafening roar of the Magnum. Instead, the slightly quieter sound of Don Eppes service pistol echoed through the house.

Leary blinked hard, staring down at the bloody hole in his chest. He shook his head.

"George. Diana," he whispered, and toppled off the bed, dead before he hit the floor.

Alan frantically freed himself and nearly dived onto the bed next to Charlie. He stroked his son's face, while pulling the knife from its bloody sheath. He pressed his hand against it to stop the bleeding.

"Charlie, can you hear me?" He whispered, his eyes welling up with tears again. "Come on, son, talk to me."

Sweet relief washed over him as his son's eyes opened, revealing two pain-filled brown orbs. They focused on him, lighting in recognition.

"Dad?" He whispered, searching for hope.

"I'm here, Charlie. I'm here," he said comfortingly, stroking his son's forehead.

"Hey, Dad," a voice said behind him. Alan turned and saw Don, leaning against the doorway, service pistol in hand. His face was pale, but he was smiling. He gripped his stomach, as if nauseated.

"Don," Alan said smiling. "Charlie's alive! You scared me to death! I thought you were shot, but I guess you were faking."

"I wasn't faking, Dad," Don said, lifting up his hand. Alan's heart froze in terror as he saw that Don's hand, which had been clutching his side, was stained with blood.

"Oh, my God," Alan murmured.

Don began to fall forward, and Alan had no choice but to abandon Charlie on the bed to catch his eldest son.

"Shit," Don murmured in obvious pain. He lay in Alan's lap, soaking his father's clothes with blood.

"Oh, Don," Alan said, stroking his eldest son's hair. Suddenly, he heard Charlie moan.

"Leave me here, Dad. Charlie needs you," Don said. Alan shook his head fervently.

"Don, I'm going to have to pick you up. I'm not going to leave you here. Ready, go!" Don exhaled sharply as his father lifted him into his arms, cradling him as he would a baby. He gently laid him on the bed, next to his brother.

"Take it easy, Don," Alan said gently as he ripped open Don's shirt and applied pressure to his son's gunshot wound. The blood was dark, and his skin was deathly white and cold. Alan realized that if Don did not receive medical attention soon, he was going to die.

"Dad," Don murmured, wincing as waves upon waves of pain struck him. He knew the pain was a good sign; as long as he felt pain, he wouldn't die.

"I'm here, Don. I'm here," Alan said. He glanced at his other son, who seemed to have fallen unconscious again. One hand remained pressed firmly against the knife wound, while the other rested on his other son's wound. Suddenly, he perceived the faint sound of sirens, steadily growing louder by the second.

"Help's coming, Don. We'll have you fixed up in no time."

"Dad, I'm starting to go numb," Don whispered, and Alan could see fear in his son's eyes.

"It's okay, Don. You going to be all right, trust me," Alan said, but his tears showed that he himself could not believe what he had said.

"Donnie?" Alan turned to Charlie, realizing his youngest son was awake. He was staring at the pale form of his brother, bleeding to death right next to him.

"Shh, Charlie," Alan said. He removed his hand from Charlie's wound, and saw it was still bleeding. He closed his eyes for a moment. It wasn't happening. He couldn't lose both his sons…

"Don?" Charlie called again, his eyes dull. He looked so much like a little boy, looking for his big brother for protection.

Don turned his head, and smiled weakly at his brother. Weakly, his hand floundered about, searching for his brother's hand.

Alan's heart broke as he guided his fading son's hand to Charlie's. Don could barely find the strength to grip his brother's limp hand.

"Hey, Charlie," he said, his voice breaking. Suddenly, he was afraid. He was afraid that he would never see his brother or father ever again.

Charlie gripped Don's hand. He did not understand what was happening. The pain he felt in his stomach distracted his mind, and he did not see the growing bloodstain surrounding his brother's body.

Red lights danced on the ceiling as sirens roared. Help had finally come.

"Dad," Don said, his voice suddenly panicky. He couldn't feel anything anymore. "Dad, tell Terry… tell her she is the best partner I ever had. Tell her-"

"Don, you're going to tell her that yourself," Alan said, his heart skipping a beat. Don's skin was growing paler.

"Tell her that she gave me some of the best memories, like our date at the Laundromat."

"Don-" Alan began.

"Dad, I love you." Don then turned to Charlie. His little brother's eyes betrayed his confusion and pain. "I love you too, buddy."

"Don…" Charlie murmured.

"Don, stop that. You're not going to die," Alan said, shaking his head violently in denial. He could hear the rapid steps of what was most likely FBI agents down below him.

"Die?" Charlie repeated. Suddenly, he could see the blood on the sheets. Don's blood.

"Police! Put your hands up!" An officer dashed into the room.

"Call an ambulance!" Alan cried.

"Put your hands up!" The officer repeated.

"I can't put my hands up; my son's bleeding to death!" Alan shouted back.

"Stand down, officer," Terry Lake said from outside the room. "He's not our- oh, God. We need medics! We have an officer down! I repeat, officer down!"

Her face was pale as she ran to the bedside. She took Don's arm, trying to find his pulse. She found it, faint and erratic.

"Out of the way!" A paramedic shouted. She pushed through the police and FBI officers now flooding the room.

"Where's Leary?" Terry asked Alan.

"On the other side of the bed. He's dead," Alan said, not taking his eyes or his hand off Don.

"Please, sir, let me take care of him," the paramedic said gently. Alan looked up, gazing into her green eyes, and she could see his torment.

"Sir, please," she said. Alan slowly got off the bed. More paramedics were entering the room, some attending to Charlie. Most, however, surrounded Don.

"He's losing blood fast. We need to get to the hospital now!" The first paramedic shouted, staring grimly at Don's wound. "Call in a chopper!"

"Right, ma'am," an officer said, beginning to talk into his radio.

The first gurney appeared, and was wheeled next to Charlie. Two burly male paramedics lifted the dazed professor on it, and separated Don and Charlie's hands. Don's hand fell limp, for he had fallen unconscious.

"Don, no," Charlie whispered as he was wheeled out of the bedroom. He needed to be with his brother. He had finally realized that his brother was badly hurt.

"Don't worry, sir, we'll have you to the hospital in no time."

"Don," he called, hoping that they would realize where he really wanted to be. But they did not stop.

Alan watched from the window as Charlie was loaded into the ambulance and taken away. He closed his eyes, silent praying for his boy's recovery.

"Sir, why don't you go with him?" The green-eyed paramedic said.

"Miss-" Alan started.

"Lisa," the paramedic finished for him.

"Is my boy going to make it?" Lisa glanced up from Don's body.

"Sir-"

"Alan," He said.

"Alan, I really don't know. But I promise you, I won't let your son die without a fight." A second gurney appeared, passing between Alan and Lisa. He gazed hard into her eyes and knew that she truly wouldn't let Don die. She was willing to fight for him.

"Thank you, Lisa," he whispered, a tear crawling down his cheek. Lisa nodded, and helped the other paramedics lift Don onto the gurney. Alan could suddenly hear the sound of a helicopter, landing on his front lawn. For the first time that horrible night, he felt hope.

But then, Lisa's voice, high with worry, shattered his hope.

"I lost his pulse!" She cried. Then the panic began.

"We need oxygen now!"

"Get the defib up here!"

"Starting CPR!" Lisa cried. "Keep pressure on the wound, Peter!"

"We need to get him outside!"

"We need to keep him breathing!" Lisa shouted back.

"Don!" Alan cried. He stepped forward, only to be pushed back. Terry Lake stood between him and his son.

"Move, Terry!" He cried. "Don needs me!"

"Mr. Eppes, Don needs you to calm down and let them do their jobs," her voice was quiet, and her eyes were filled with worry. She wanted to be by Don's side almost as much as Alan did, he could tell.

"We have an officer down, gunshot wound to the side… officer, what was he hit with?" Another EMT asked, radioing in the damage.

"It looks like a 357 Magnum. Hollow point," an officer, holding up Leary's gun.

"Shit. We're coming in with a gunshot wound, possibly to the liver," the paramedic continued.

"What does that mean?" Alan demanded, overhearing the report. "Terry, what is he talking about?" Terry's eyes were filled with sadness. She knew all too well, what was going to happen.

"The Magnum 357's bullets can be hollow tipped. When they strike something, the tip shatters, causing a lot of damage. And if it hit his liver…" Terry looked at the dark blood, and knew it had to be true.

"Oh, Don," she whispered.

"I got a pulse!" Lisa said, her voice filled relief. "Let's get him out of here."

"I'm coming with you," Alan insisted. Lisa glanced at him, but turned back to Don.

"Alan, I'll take you in my car," Terry offered. "They need as much space as they can get on the helicopter."

Alan watched as his eldest child was taken out of his house. Suddenly, a horrible feeling rose in his stomach, unlike he had ever felt before. What if that was the last time he ever saw his son?

"Don," he called suddenly, breaking past Terry. He ran down the stairs, out to his lawn, to where the helicopter had landed.

"Don!" He yelled over the whirring of the rotors. The medics had placed an oxygen mask over Don's face. Alan caught sight of a syringe injecting something in his son's arm, and heard Lisa's commanding voice giving orders.

Don seemed conscious, though barely. Alan saw no signs of pain on his face, which was a small comfort.

"Don!" He cried again. Don turned his head ever so slightly.

"I love you, son!" Alan yelled. He could have sworn he saw Don nod, but he could not be sure.

Then the door to the helicopter closed, and it lifted off, carrying his eldest son to the hospital. Alan watched it leave, a lump rising in his throat.

Chapter 6, Where You Left Me, will be up in a few days. Or not, I'm still debating if I should kill a certain someone. Thanks for reading!


	6. Where You Left Me

Chapter 6- Where You Left Me

Alan paced the waiting room quickly, his head bent, and hands tightly gripping each other. Terry could only watch as the man futilely tried to walk out his anxiety. She wished she could comfort him, but she herself was trapped in utter hopelessness. Charlie's stab wound had been deep, causing a lot of blood loss. And Don…

She closed her eyes, trying to push away the image of Don bleeding on his brother's bed, pale and cold. Every time she thought about it, she felt herself take another step closer to the edge. She had been there so many times before, but she had always had something to pull her back. But now, that something, or rather, that _someone_, was the one pushing her to the edge.

If Don died, she didn't what she would do.

"Mr. Eppes?" A nurse called out. Alan was there in a moment.

"Yes?" He said, his voice betraying his fear.

"We just finished up with surgery for Charlie. He's been stabilized. It looks like he's going to pull through."

Alan closed his eyes in sweet relief. At least one son was safe.

"Thank you so very much," he said, his voice thick with gratitude. The nurse nodded.

"You should be able to see him tomorrow."

"Charlie's going to be alright," Alan said to Terry, who had risen.

"Thank God," Terry whispered, and hugged Alan. She did not know the man very well, but they could both celebrate Charlie's survival.

Another nurse came from the two doors marked "SURGERY." Alan turned, his eyes still filled with joy and relief.

"Mr. Eppes," the nurse began. The joy died in his eyes instantly.

"Oh, my God," he murmured. Terry turned to look at the nurse, and her relief was replaced by horror.

"Mr. Eppes, you need to sit down," the nurse said quietly. Alan sat down, nearly missing the seat. He felt completely numb, frozen in time. Terry followed, her hand clamped firmly over her mouth.

"The gunshot wound to Don's side did a lot of damage to his liver and other organs. We performed surgery, but the blood loss was very severe."

"Is my boy gone?" He asked, his voice trembling. His insides had gone completely cold, save for his stomach, which twisted with nausea.

Terry had bent down, hiding her face. Don was gone. He was gone…

"Not yet, sir." Alan rose.

"He's still alive then, right? He could still make it."

"Mr. Eppes, your son has sustained a lot of damage. It's a miracle he's still alive right now. He made it out of surgery, but he's on artificial respiration. The chances of him recovering are extremely slim. If he does survive, he will most likely spend the rest of his life in a coma. But I sincerely doubt that he will live." The nurse suddenly realized her harsh tone. "Mr. Eppes, I'm telling you this because you need to be prepared for the possibility."

"Can I see him, miss?" He asked, his voice gone hoarse. The nurse shook her head.

"I'm sorry sir, but I can't allow it. Besides, you wouldn't want to see him like that. I'm sorry," she said again, and left the two alone.

Alan returned to his chair, slumping. How could this be happening? Just the day before, he'd had dinner with his two sons. It seemed unreal.

"Alan," Terry said quietly. He turned to look at the agent. Her face was blank, but he could see her eyes were shining with unshed tears. "I'm going to go home. Unless you want me to stay here."

"It's alright, Terry," Alan said, his voice just a quiet. It was taking his all not to lose control. He could not lose Don. He had lost his wife, he had nearly lost Charlie, but he would not lose Don. Even the thought of it was unbearable.

"Goodbye, then," Terry said, beginning to leave.

"Terry," Alan called after her. She turned.

"Uh, Don… he told me to tell you… he wanted me to say… you were good to him, Terry." Alan could barely find the words to tell her his son's farewell. It was almost as if by saying those words, he was accepting the fact that there was no hope for Don.

Terry nodded, and turned quickly, wiping away a tear. Alan watched her leave, and then began to stare at the floor, fighting the losing battle to his own tears.

She had barely made it to her apartment before the sobs came. Her cheeks burned with shame as she turned on her radio, turning it up in order to hide her sobs from the neighbors.

_They don't care, Terry_, she told herself, sitting down on her couch, her knees drawn up to her chest. She knew they didn't care, she knew she was acting like a child, but she didn't care.

Don was going to die. The memory of him lying on the bed, blood surrounding him haunted her, tormented her.

She remembered her warning to him. Why hadn't he listened? Why hadn't she tried harder?

Terry pulled her knees in tighter as she realized that she could have prevented everything. She could have stopped Don from leaving the Grove's residence, could have called for backup sooner, could have prevented Charlie from being stabbed, could have saved Don from death…

Waves upon waves of guilt crashed upon Terry as she recalled Alan's words.

"…_you were good to him, Terry…_"

_So good that I killed him_, she thought bitterly. Anger pulsed through her. She nearly ripped off her jacket, and threw it to the floor. Suddenly, she found herself staring at her pistol.

"No," she said aloud, removing the gun from its holster. She placed it on the table, and focused on the radio, hoping to distract herself. The radio, however, proved to be no help.

"On my way for the day I find no sorrow 

_Everyday is the same; there's no tomorrow_

_And I feel like I feel_

_Cause it's cold here where you left me_

_Hey, I think that someday I might need you somehow_

_I, I think I might have loved you…_"

"Oh, God." She put her hands to her face. The song on the radio had only intensified the illogical and dangerous urge.

_It's not your fault, Terry. You're depressed. Classic PTSS. Just a few milligrams of Zoloft will solve this problem_, she told herself. But the pain and guilt that came with the memory of Don taking a bite of a slice of pizza outside a Laundromat told her otherwise.

Don was going to die, and it was her fault.

Slowly, with a trembling hand, she picked up her gun. It felt so familiar in hand. How many times had she used it to protect herself and to protect Don? She couldn't recall.

_Not enough_, she realized. _I'm so sorry, Don._

She held the gun, tears running down her face, and terrible guilt consumed her.

A gunshot rang through the apartment, sudden and violent. The radio blared, drowning out a quiet thump of something hitting the floor. Blood began to seep, eventually surrounding a cold white hand clutching a pistol. The song continued, the first eulogy for the lost soul lying dead on the floor.

_"On my way for the day I find my heart's not for taking_

And I know it's all but gone 

_It only served to make me cry_

_And I feel like I feel_

_Cause it's black here where you left me_

_Hey, I think that someday I might need you somehow_

_I, I think I might have loved you_

_These things I said but you were_

_A million miles away_

_A million miles away_

On my way for the day I find no sorrow…" 

Chapter 7, Recovery, will be up in a few days. The song on the radio was "Million Miles" by Fuel. Thanks for reading!


	7. Recovery

Chapter 7: Recovery

"What have we got?" LAPD Detective Frank Pierce said as he entered the apartment. It was modestly furnished, and would have seemed quite comfortable, save for covered body on the floor.

"Looks like a suicide, sir," the officer who had been first on the scene answered. "Gunshot wound to the head."

"We have a name, yet?"

"That's why I called you, sir," the officer said, handing him a wallet. Pierce shook his head when he saw the badge.

"FBI Agent," he said grimly. "You call any of the feds yet?"

"Yes. Their on their way."

"Sir," another officer said. She handed him a bloodstained note.

"It's the suicide note, sir," she said.

Pierce glanced over it. It was typed, on notebook paper, and had been meticulously folded.

"I'm saying hello, and goodbye

Losing you was too much to bear

I've lost too much already

Twenty-five years of pain

They have to be avenged, I guess

So, I'll take them one by one

And save a bullet for my pain

It wasn't supposed to end like this

But you forced me to where I am

And now I can't stop myself"

"Well, that's an interesting note," Pierce murmured.

"Detective Pierce," a voice called behind him. He turned and saw a tall man in a dark suit. It had to be an FBI agent. And judging by the weariness and pain in his eyes, he had known the deceased. "Agent Sinclair."

Pierce shook them man's hand, then gestured to the body on the floor. David approached it, and lifted up the sheet. He saw the familiar clothes, and knew it was true.

Terry Lake was dead.

"Tenant next door heard a gunshot last night. Didn't think much of it, because it had been pretty loud in there. He said the radio had been blasting, and he thought the gunshot was part of the music. He called it in when she didn't answer the door this morning when he tried checking on her."

"Did you find a note?" David asked, rubbing his face. He knew he shouldn't have come, but he wouldn't have believed it otherwise. It didn't seem possible that in two days both Don and Terry had been shot.

"Yeah." Pierce waited for David to don gloves before handing him the note. David read over it.

"Never seen one like it. So, what are you thinking? Do you think it could have been staged?" Pierce watched David. He was trying to cheer the man up. As dismal and depressing as murder was, nothing was more heartbreaking than suicide.

"No. She did it," David said, giving the note back to the detective.

"Are you sure?" Pierce said, surprised.

"Her partner was shot last night. They're saying he's not going to pull through."

"Damn. I'm sorry, Agent Sinclair," Pierce said, realizing it was not just Terry Lake's death that was occupying the agent's mind.

"Detective," an officer approached the two. "We found this in her pants pocket."

Pierce took it, and handed it to David. It was a picture of Don and Terry, walking next to each other. Don was studying an open manila folder, entirely focused on its contents. Terry, however, was focused on her partner's face, her own filled with concern.

David left the apartment, sorrow filling him. He knew that Terry had cared for Don, but had never dreamed that she would kill herself because of him. Raymond Leary was dead, but the repercussions of his actions were still doing damage.

"He's right in here, Mr. Eppes," a nurse said, beckoning with her arm. Alan nodded in thanks, and then entered the room.

Charlie was still sleeping. Alan felt relief pour through his system looking at his son's face. Though he had known last night that his son was all right, it was seeing his face that made it a reality.

Alan sat down beside Charlie's bed, watching his son sleep. He took his hand and wished he never had to let it go. The nightmare of the night before was still fresh in Alan's mind. Suddenly, the young man stirred.

"Dad?" Charlie said drowsily. Alan smiled.

"Good morning, Charlie," Alan said.

"What time is it?"

"That's an interesting question for someone in your situation to ask. It's 11:03, and it's a beautiful Tuesday morning."

"I'm late for class," Charlie murmured, and began to rise. Pain, and his father's hand, however, kept him down.

"You won't be teaching for a while, son," Alan said. "Larry's going to cover for you, though."

Charlie smiled, allowing his muscles to relax. He looked around.

"Why am I here?" He asked.

"There was an accident last night. You were hurt," Alan said, carefully choosing his words.

"An accident?" Charlie repeated, confused. "I don't remember-"

Suddenly, the horrid events of the night before came back to him.

"Oh," he breathed, closing his eyes.

"Charlie, it's okay," Alan said, for Charlie was beginning to hyperventilate. "Charlie I need you to take a deep breath, and look at me."

Charlie nodded, trembling. He stared at his father, trying to breathe, trying to push away the memories.

Slowly, he found control. He looked into Alan's eyes, recalling good memories. Playing Scrabble with Alan. Eating dinner. Talking about Don.

Don…

"Dad, where's Don?" He asked.

"Charlie, you should probably be sleeping. I'm sorry I woke you," Alan said quickly.

"Dad, I need to know. Is he… is he gone?" Charlie's voice was barely above a whisper. He could see, in his mind, his big brother bleeding out on the bed, and if terrified him. The pain in his stomach laced with nausea suddenly.

"No. God, no," Alan said, shaking his head violently, tears threatening to flow. His heart was sinking again. Yes, Charlie was alive and well, but he knew he could lose Don at any moment.

"Then where is he?" Charlie said.

"Don's here," Alan said.

"Is he alright?" Charlie asked, his brown eyes filled with concern. Alan shook his head, afraid to speak.

"When you were attacked, Don was there. He shot the man who… who did it, but he was shot as well." Charlie's mouth opened, his face a picture of horror.

"But he's going to be okay, right? Right, Dad?" Charlie searched his father's eyes, but saw no traces of hope. Only pain and despair.

"It's… it's not looking good, Charlie. The doctor's say there is a chance he could make it, but he could go any time. He's off the respirator, but… if only he could wake up…" Alan said, his voice going hoarse. Charlie's brown eyes went wide. He shook his head, tears welling up.

"Charlie, I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Charlie said, his voice hoarse. He suddenly felt overwhelmed. The terrifying fact that Don could die cut through Charlie, chilling his heart. He had always known that Don had a high-risk job, that Don's chances of dying young were much higher than that of a normal person, but Charlie had never applied that knowledge to Don. He had always foolishly hoped that Don would not lose to the percentages.

But now, the mathematical percentages mocked Charlie's foolish hopes. For once, Charlie hated math and its cold finality.

"Don't you worry, Charlie," Alan whispered, curling his hand around the back of Charlie's neck. "He's going to pull through. He's been in harder situations."

_No, he hasn't_, Charlie thought to himself.

Suddenly, Alan's phone rang. He excused himself, and answered.

"Mr. Eppes, it's Agent Sinclair," a weary voice said.

"Oh, hello," Alan said.

"How's Don?"

"Doctor's still saying it's critical," Alan said, clearing his throat. He walked out of the room, standing just outside so he could still see Charlie.

"I'm sorry," David responded sympathetically. "I'm sorry I can't be there."

"Will you and Terry be visiting any time soon? Charlie's awake, and he could use some encouragement."

There was a long pause on the phone. Alan began to wonder if he had lost the connection.

"Mr. Eppes, Terry's dead," David finally said.

"What?" Alan asked, horrified.

"She died last night," the agent answered, his voice wearier than before.

"How?" Alan could not believe it.

"We… we think she killed herself."

"Suicide?" It didn't make sense. Terry had been a strong woman. Alan knew she had cared for Don, but still…

"It's looking that way, sir."

"I'm so sorry, David," Alan said, as he realized that in one night, David had lost Terry and could also lose Don.

"Tell Charlie I hope he gets well soon."

"I will," he promised. "Take care, David."

Alan looked down. This week was getting worse and worse.

When he finally glanced up, to check on Charlie, his heart twisted.

Charlie was sitting up, his hands hiding his face. Even from outside the room, Alan could hear his sobs.

"Charlie!" He ran to his son, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

"I can't lose him, Dad," Charlie gasped between sobs. "I can't."

"We're not going to lose Don, Charlie," Alan said, his voice trembling.

"What if we do, Dad? First Mom, and now-"

"Charles," Alan said, cupping his son's face. "You cannot think that way. Don needs our hope as much as he needs our love."

Charlie nodded, sniffing. He wanted to hope, but the sneering face of Raymond Leary killed all the hope in his heart.

"Mr. Eppes, Charlie needs to rest," a nurse said, entering the room.

"Charlie," Alan said, rising. "I'm going to be sitting right outside. Don't be afraid."

Charlie nodded, lying down.

Alan left the room, and sat down. Charlie had been violated and had nearly lost his own brother. He was extremely fragile. Who knew what he would do to cope with his pain?

Then, a terrible thought crossed his mind. What if Charlie decided to cope with pain the same way Terry had?

Alan did not wait another second. He flipped open his cell phone, and searched for an address. He had lost his wife, he could possibly lose his eldest son, but there was no way in hell he would lose Charlie.

"Reuter Psychological Center, how may I help you?"

"May I speak to Erin Worthing?"

"Hold one moment."

"David, glad you could make it," the coroner said, slightly nervous. David nodded, wondering why the coroner had left a message for him, asking to come to the morgue immediately.

"What did you find?" David asked. He knew it was about Terry.

"It wasn't a suicide, David," the coroner said bluntly. "My findings suggest she murdered."

"Murdered?" David questioned, surprised. "But there was a note, no sign of struggle-"

"Perhaps not at your crime scene, but I found signs of struggle all over the body. Internal bleeding in the abdomen, bruises on the neck, and a broken wrist someone attempted to set. The area surrounding the bullet entry was bruised, suggesting the gun was pressed hard against the skin. She fought like hell, David." The coroner paused. "There's something else."

"What is it?" David asked. His mind was whirling. Terry murdered? How could it be?

"I first realized this wasn't a suicide I noticed several lacerations on the inner thighs. At first, I thought they might have been part of an act of self-mutilation before suicide, but when I checked the reports, there was no mention of a knife or sharp object of any sort in the proximity of the victim. So I checked the area even more." The coroner paused. When he spoke again, his voice was a slightly softer. "She was raped, twice."

David stared at the coroner. Murdered, and now raped?

"First it was with an object, most likely with whatever gave her the lacerations on her thighs. But I also found semen and pubic hair. And, I found this."

David's heart skipped a beat the coroner held up a piece of laminated notebook paper. Three words were scrawled in messy, angry handwriting:

FUCK YOU, BITCH!

"This can't be," David murmured.

"I believe you have a copycat on your hands," the coroner said. "A very pissed copycat."

Pain is his only reminder that he lives. All other sensations are black or numb. He knows he sleeps, he knows he may never awaken, but for now he is alive and in pain. He tries to dream, but the memory of the knife piercing his brother's flesh keeps him from escaping reality. He remembers nothing else, haunted by that chilling reality. He wants to run from it, but he is afraid to lose sight of his brother. He is his brother's protector, and no matter how painful it is to watch, leaving him would be even more painful.

_"He's alright, Donnie," a soft voice whispers. Reality begins to fade as he realizes it is the voice of Terry Lake._

_"How do you know?" He asks, watching his brother still._

_"Because he's not here with us."_

_"He's right there," Don motions, but then sees the image of his brother has faded to dull gray. There is no longer color in his world but the dull gray. He turns to Terry. She is now the only color._

_"Why are you here, Terry?" She smiles._

_"Close your eyes, Donnie." He obeys, and feels her take his hand._

_"Are you in pain?"_

_"What do you think? I just got shot," Don replies, his eyes remaining shut. His breathing is deeper, and the pain has lessened._

_"It's good to have pain, Donnie. It reminds us that we are still alive. Without pain, we would be cold, unappreciative of all warmth we are given."_

_"What the hell are you talking about?" Don's asks. Though his eyes are still closed, the darkness is beginning to brighten to a deep gray. He is awakening._

_"Will you remember that, Donnie?" Terry asks softly._

_"I'd remember it better if you'd explain to me why the hell you're getting philosophical on me," Don retorts. He can almost open his eyes now._

_"Don't try to analyze a dream, Donnie. People might start to think you're trying to act like me." He hears the smile in her voice. He opens his eyes, but he can no longer see her._

"I'm going to miss you, Don." Her voice echoes, and the sensation of her hand holding his fades.

Pain grows as the light grows, slowly bringing Don to consciousness. Just before his eyes open, he wonders why Terry would miss him. Would she not be right there beside him?

Don opened his eyes, blinking as he took in brightness of the white hospital room. He listened to the steady beep, an electronic reminder that he was alive. Feeling came back to him. He felt the IV in his arm, the bed sheet against his bare legs, the hospital gown rustling against his skin, the mask on his face forcing air into his mouth and nose.

Then pain settled in, sharp and deep. He tried to sit up slowly, wincing. He put a hand to his abdomen.

"Mr. Eppes, you need to remain lying down. You might hurt yourself even more." a nurse exclaimed. Don complied, fully agreeing with her.

"Where's my family?" he asked. He was surprised at the hoarseness of his voice.

"Hold on, sir, I'm getting the doctor." A moment later, a tall man appeared.

"Figures you would wake up on my coffee break," the doctor said, smiling. "How do you feel, Agent Eppes?"

"Like shit," Don responded. The pain in his side had increased. "Where's my brother?"

"Charlie's doing very well. I left him with your father. They're both very worried about you. Now, let's get something to help you with that pain."

He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain. He focused on the thought of his brother, alive and well, and his father.

"Donnie!" His father called, what could have been minutes or hours later. Don's eyes flew open.

"Hey, Dad," he replied. Alan took his son's hand, smiling.

"Thank God. I thought I was going to lose you for a few moments there."

"I'm sorry I worried you, Dad. How's Charlie?"

"He's sleeping, Donnie. It's about three in the morning. He was awake earlier today."

"Why are you still up?"

"I couldn't sleep, Don. I was afraid that if I fell asleep, you…" Alan's voice trailed off.

"Dad, I'm going anywhere. I'm okay. Please, just get some sleep."

Alan watched his eldest son. He didn't want to leave Don. It was too soon. But Don needed peace and rest.

"Alright. I'll see if I can get some sleep. I love you, son." Alan smiled. Finally, it seemed the nightmare was ending.

Chapter 8: Not Strong Enough, will be up in a few weeks. I sincerely apologize for the lateness of this update. I have been holding down two jobs, as well as maintaining a relationship a fun, sexy relationship.


	8. Not Strong Enough

Author's Note- "Million Miles" by Fuel, used in a previous chapter, belongs to Fuel. Reuter Psychological Center does not exist, but is in fact based on Pike Creek Psychological Center in Delaware. Kinda graphic in the first few paragraphs. Sorry.

Chapter 8: Not Strong Enough

She was below him, screaming in pain as the knife ripped her, sending waves of indescribable pain throughout her bloody body. His heartbeat quickened as he watched the blood flow. In and out, in and out, the knife slid in and out of her. Fast, deep, piercing her stomach, her lungs, her thighs. It was hard for him to keep control, so hard. He wanted her throat dark with blood, her skin white and cold.

She squirmed under him, begging him to kill her. He couldn't wait any longer, he needed her death. He plunged the knife into her throat, screaming at the top of his lungs as pleasure overcame him. He threw his head back and waited until her gurgles died down and her body ceased moving. It was complete.

He dismounted her body, kissed her bloodstained lips, and pulled out a laminated piece of notebook paper.

"Here you go, sweetie," he said, deftly placing it inside her. He laughed, and walked out of the house into the dark night.

...

David Sinclair walked down the hospital's hallway, his step slow, and his heart heavy. It had been two days since Terry's murder, and it was still as hard as hell to believe that Terry was gone, and harder still to accept that she had been tortured, raped, and murdered.

And now he had to tell Don.

"David!" Don said when David walked in. "It's good to see a friendly face. Did you hear that Charlie's doing well? He might be out in a few days."

"How about you, Don?" David asked.

"A week or two. They patched me up nicely. Hey, where's Terry? I haven't heard from her all week."

"Don, Terry's gone," David said, his voice soft.

Don closed his eyes, pain ripping through his heart. He recalled his dream of her, smiling by his bedside, holding his hand as he slept. He remembered her voice, soft and sweet, so unlike her voice at work.

"When did it happen?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He could feel sorrow cresting in him like a wave, threatening to crash down upon his heart.

"The night you were shot."

"How?" Don asked, anger growing.

"Don-"

"How, David?" Don repeated, his voice low.

"She was shot." David hoped that would subdue Don. He didn't want to tell his fellow agent all that had happened to Terry before her death, partly for Don's sake, partly for his own.

"I want the report, David."

"Don, you need to-"

"Just give me the fucking report!" Don snapped. Pain, grief, and anger flooded his system as he read the coroner's report.

_Oh, Terry._

Don closed his eyes. How could this be happening? First his mom, and now Terry.

"Any leads?"

"Not yet. We found semen and hair though, and our labs our processing those at the moment. Hopefully we'll find some DNA. I'm so sorry, Don." Don nodded quietly.

"Thanks, David."

Silence filled the room as David left. Don blinked repeatedly, and rubbed his eyes. He wouldn't let himself cry. He looked at the crime scene photos again, trying to numb himself to the pain. He could pretend it was just another body.

But then he saw a crime scene photo that stabbed at his heart. Next to the body (he did not dare to think of it as Terry's body), he saw a photo. It was of himself and Terry, from the film the Raymond Leary had left Keith Brown's crime scene.

...

Two days later…

"Well, it looks like you'll be able to go home tomorrow, Charlie," Alan said. He had just spoken with the doctor, who had informed him of the good news. "What do you have to say about that, Charlie?"

"Did you know that statistically, cutting your wrists is the best way to commit suicide?" Charlie said suddenly, startling Alan.

"Charlie-"

"See, with cutting, you just bleed out. If you shot yourself, you might just end up with brain damage. If you jump, you might just paralyze yourself. And pills, you would just throw them up."

"Charlie, stop talking about that," Alan said, fear rising in his gut. Charlie looked at him, his eyes glassy with tears.

"Why didn't Terry cut herself? She knows about suicide; she knows the statistics. Why did she shoot herself? It doesn't make any sense-"

"How did you know Terry was dead?"

"I heard you talking on the phone with David."

Charlie, just don't think about her. Terry was sick. You're not."

"No, Dad, I was just stabbed and sexually violated by maniac who also shot my brother. That's all," Charlie said bitterly.

"Charlie, listen to me," Alan said, cupping his son's face with his hands. "I love you. I almost lost both you and Don last week. Please don't put me through that again. Promise me you won't."

Suddenly, Charlie began to cry. He put his face in his hands, sobbing. He felt so strange even thinking about cutting and suicide. He had never really thought about them before. He felt as if he was a different person. He felt wronged, like someone had stolen a part of him that he would be able to recover. He used to feel strong, and proud, that somehow numbers were his powerful weapon that could protect him against all evil. When his mother died, he had used them. They had helped, but it had been Alan and Don who had truly protected him from the terrible grief they had experienced.

But neither numbers, nor Alan, nor Don had protected him against Raymond Leary.

Now he felt vulnerable and weak. And even though his father sat on his bed next to him, he still very much alone.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he said between sobs. Alan took him into his arms, holding him tight.

"It's alright, Charlie, everything's going to be alright." Charlie nodded, secretly doubting his father.

"In fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about, Charlie."

"What do you mean, Dad?" Alan cleared his throat.

"I, uh, set up an appointment for you on Saturday."

"A doctor's appointment?" Charlie asked, confused.

"Sort of," Alan said.

_Oh, God._ Charlie thought.

"You want me to talk to a psychiatrist, don't you?" Charlie said accusingly. Alan decided it was better to tell Charlie the whole truth.

"Not a psychiatrist. A counselor. I set up a session with you and Erin Worthing at Reuter Psychological Center. You remember Andrew Worthing?"

"He worked with you as a city planner, didn't he?" Alan nodded.

"His daughter works at the center as a counselor. I saw her after… after we lost your mother."

"You went into counseling, Dad?" Charlie asked in amazement. He never would have imagined his father the type to seek professional psychological help. He was so much stronger than that.

"It's not a sin to ask for help, Charlie, especially when something like this happens. You'll understand why when you talk to Erin."

_The next Saturday..._

Charlie sighed as he sat down in a brown leather armchair. In front of him sat a young woman with short blonde hair and warm brown eyes.

"Charlie, I'm Erin Worthing. Before we get started, I just want to let you know that we'll go at your pace. Do you have any questions?"

"I'm sorry, Erin. I don't think this is going to work out."

"Why is that, Charlie?" Erin asked, disappointment obvious in her eyes.

It's just that… I feel so dumb doing this whole stupid thing!" Charlie burst out angrily.

"Dumb, Charlie?" Erin asked. "You don't seem dumb to me. I've been told you're a math genius, so I highly doubt the proper word for you is 'dumb.'" Charlie flushed, feeling like a reprimanded child.

"Not dumb," Charlie said. "I guess… I feel weak doing this."

"That's strange, Charlie," Erin said.

"Why's that?"

"Because the whole point of this is to uncover your strength. It's trapped underneath your fears and your memories. We need to dig it up and let it live."

"I don't know how to do that," Charlie said.

"Let me teach you. Charlie, open up your heart. Give up those memories that drown your strength. Let them go, and I promise you'll feel so light, so free."


	9. Dénouement

Chapter 9: Dénouement

Chapter 9: Dénouement

"911 emergency, how may I assist you?"

"I called them all. Not my brother. He did the fucking, I did the killing."

"Excuse me?"

"Ray liked to fuck. I never did. That's why he went after Charles by himself. Fucking idiot."

"Sir-"

"You tell that bastard Special Agent Don Eppes he won't get away with killing my brother. He WILL pay!"

"We're missing something," Don groaned, letting his head hit the table. Nearly one and a half months after Terry's death, and there still were no leads on her killer. Terry's case had gone cold, but her killer had already killed again. Alice Wilson, and Robert Turner were his most recent victims. The pattern had completely chanced though. There no more notes. Only bloody, mutilated, and raped corpses were left behind. The only thing that linked these cases were the DNA in the hair and semen left at the crime scenes.

"We have searched L.A. for anyone related Raymond Leary and have come up with nothing," David said solemnly.

"And from both a physical and psychological standpoint, there's no way it can be anyone else but Raymond Leary's closest relative, his brother Bartholomew." Megan Reeves, Don's new partner, had become a most welcome edition to the team. However, as bright as the young woman was, she could not track down the second half of the Notebook Killers.

"How many times will he kill again before we catch him?" Don wondered out loud. While the case had never looked bleak, his family was slowly healing. Don himself had almost fully recovered physically, as well as mentally. Alan was pretty much his old self, only slightly more protective of his youngest son. Even Charlie had shown improvement.

After attending counseling twice a week for three weeks, Charlie had finally been deemed well enough to return to teaching. Being able to teach again had greatly lifted his spirits. Don could still sense a shadow hanging over his little brother. Charlie no longer involved himself in Don's job. In fact he hadn't even stepped foot in Don's office since his assault.

"Don, I just got a call from LAPD. Someone called 911 and was ranting about Raymond Leary. He mentioned you, Don," David said, breaking into his thoughts.

"What?" Don and Megan said simultaneously.

"The operator said he even left his address for her. They're faxing it over right now."

Don rose and walked over to the fax machine. In moments the fax printed out. Don's eyes widened.

"David, you're not going to believe this," Don said.

"This is address is from the apartment complex Terry lived in."

"Not only that, Don. He was the next door neighbor. He's the guy who called her murder in."

"What the name of the tenant that owns the apartment?" Megan asked.

"Robert Burns. He must have been using Burns' apartment."

"You've got to be shitting me," Don murmured. "Let's check out that apartment."

"LAPD's already there. They said it was empty when they got there. The entire apartment was bare."

"Which means he's slipped out of our hands again," Don muttered sinking back into his chair.

"When will this end?" He whispered, putting his hand to his head.

The halls of CalSci were congested as they always were at the end of the day. Students were eager to leave they're classes, and make their way back to their dorms, their jobs, or their tutoring session. Charlie watched from his empty classroom almost afraid to leave. There was something oddly soothing about being alone, away from all human contact.

_You shouldn't think that way_, he reprimanded himself. He no longer thought about that horrible night where he had nearly lost his brother and his sanity. But he was still struggling to feel normal again.

"Go out there," he told himself. "Be with the students."

He took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive underwater, and stepped out into the hallway. Immediately, he saw young smiling faces of hard workers, geniuses, and kind hearted kids.

"Charlie!" Amita called. Charlie turned. He watched her smile.

"Amita-" he began, but she silenced him, placing her hand on his cheek. He flushed.

"No more talking. I realized last month that I might not ever get the chance to do this. We only live once."

"Yes," Charlie said, forcing himself to stand firm, and not shrink back. He was attracted to Amita, and she to him, so it was natural that they would want to kiss. But was it natural to feel so afraid?

Amita leaned forward, inviting him. He swallowed hard. Then, slowly, he inched forward, until his lips were mere millimeters from touching hers.

"_What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Let me get it back for you."_

Charlie flinched and pulled away as the memory of Raymond Leary came back to him.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Amita," he managed to mutter, fighting against the nausea. He saw the light in Amita's beautiful eyes dim with disappointment.

"It's alright, Charlie."

"It's not you, Amita," Charlie said, swallowing. His stomach was rolling as he helplessly recalled Leary's violent but sensual touch.

"Of course," Amita said, though she did not believe him.

"I, I have to go," Charlie whispered. She nodded curtly, and walked briskly out of the classroom, barely suppressing the tears.

As soon as Amita left, Charlie bent over, and wretched. He tried to calm himself and his stomach, but the smirking face of Raymond Leary would not leave his mind.

"_You're mine, little puppy dog,"_ the face seemed to say.

Charlie sat down, half falling. Tears poured down his face as he drew his knees up to his chest. Leary was dead, but he was still killing the youngest Eppes.

_I can't do this anymore,_ Charlie thought bitterly to himself. He had tried all month to push down his memories, but they continually resurfaced, and each time was worse than the previous.

For a moment, he considered Erin Worthing. He remembered her gentle smile, her understanding face, her warm voice. He knew she could help him, just as she had helped Alan, but he was afraid. He had never spoken about his experience with Leary with anyone. Could he tell a complete stranger?

"Don, you're not going to believe this," David said. Don came over to his partner's desk.

"Terry's next door neighbor, Robert Burns, has apparently been out of the country for a few months. We interviewed some of the other neighbors and they said he had someone keep an eye on the apartment. That was the guy who called it in. Don, his name is Bartholomew Leary, son of Simon Leary."

"You've got to be shitting me," Don murmured.

"Charlie, I should be back by one," Alan said, fishing his car keys from his pocket. Charlie nodded from the table, staring forward.

"Don, should be coming over in about a half hour. Okay? Charlie?"

"Sure, Dad," Charlie answered, looking up. He felt as if he were about to either explode or collapse at any moment.

He heard the door close. His father was gone.

"Dammit!" Charlie cried suddenly. He grabbed a plastic cup from the table and hurled it against the wall. It hit with a very unsatisfying thump.

Charlie rose and made his way to his bedroom. Rage was seething inside him, simmering, threatening to explode.

"I guess it's better than crying all the time," he said to himself. He thought back to his sessions with Erin.

"_You need to accept that what happened, happened. You need to acknowledge that point of your life, and then you need to acknowledge that you have been strengthened because of it. You survived it. Not just physically, but emotionally as well."_

"Okay, I acknowledge I was violated. I acknowledge that my brother almost died. It's made me stronger." He spoke aloud, hoping that by hearing his own words he might believe them.

But he did not. He flopped down onto the bed, his head in his hands.

"Why can't I move on?"

"Hello, Charlie," an unfamiliar voice called. Charlie shot up, alarmed. There was a man, walking towards him, a man with a face that looked so terribly familiar. Charlie's heart was hammering. Suddenly, it was nearly impossible to breathe.

"I'm here to finish my brother's job." He stepped into the bedroom, and shut the door behind him.

"No," Charlie said softly.

"No? Now, Charlie, I don't want to make this _too_ difficult for you. You don't want to end up like Terry, do you? All those cuts on her legs really ruined the effect." He reached out, snatching Charlie's hand.

Something in Charlie snapped when the Leary brother touched him. He wrenched his hand away from the killer with strength he didn't realize he had.

"Oh? What's this? Charlie wants to fight, eh?" Leary smiled coldly.

"No one's ever going to hurt me again," Charlie said, surprised by the coldness of his voice.

"We'll see." Leary sprang forward, knocking Charlie to the bed. He wrapped his hands around Charlie's neck, and began to squeeze.

Charlie gasped for air, mad panic consuming him. He kicked at Leary, aiming for his stomach, but instead connected with the killer's hip. He heard something clatter to the floor, perhaps a gun. He tried kicking Leary again, and luckily struck him just under the rib cage. Leary released his chokehold on Charlie. Unfortunately, the murderer recovered quickly enough to deliver a hard right cross into the young professor's face.

White hot pain exploded across Charlie's face. He shook his head in an attempt to see as he felt Leary grab him by the shirt collar, hauling to his feet.

"Bitch," Leary spat, punching him again. Charlie staggered backwards, blood pooling in his mouth. He could see that Leary was about to punch him again. If he took the hit, he would be knocked unconscious, and would be unable to protect himself. His own words came back to him. They had been spoken before Raymond Leary had touched him.

"I'm not weak, Don. God, why do you people think I'm weak?"

_I was weak. I _am_ weak._ But then Charlie looked down, and realized he didn't have to be weak.

Remembering what Don had taught him a long time ago in college, he dodged Leary's punch, barely. Leary stumbled, still caught in the momentum of the failed punch. Clearly, he hadn't expected Charlie to dodge. Charlie bent down, and picked up the pistol he had knocked from Leary's hip.

Leary turned to find himself face to face with the barrel of his own gun.

"You're never going to touch me again," Charlie said angrily, cocking the gun, his finger slowly squeezing the trigger.

Chapter 10, Finding the Strength, will be up in a few days. Thanks for reading!


	10. Finding the Strength

Chapter 10: Finding the Strength

Chapter 10: Finding the Strength

"Charlie!" Don yelled. No answer. "Charlie, answer me!"

He walked slowly and cautiously through the house, fear nearly consuming him. He could not go through this again. He could not lose Charlie. His brother meant everything to him. He had let him down once; he could not do it again.

The ground level of the house was empty. Don made his way to the stairs, shuddering as he recalled the last time he had approached those stairs with a gun in hand.

"Charlie!" He called again. He could hear breathing, loud and shallow, emanating from his brother's room. He pressed his back against the hall wall and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He approached the open door, and then stepped out.

"FB-" he began, but was cut short. His heart leapt into his throat, and he lowered his gun.

"Charlie," he said, his voice cracking. At the foot of the bed, Bartholomew Leary kneeled, his hands behind his head. He was staring at the floor, his face shining with sweat.

Charlie Eppes stood behind the murderer, holding a pistol with shaky hands. His eyes were dull and cold as they stared at the man kneeling on the ground.

"What the hell are you doing, Charlie?" Don said, finding his voice again. Charlie looked up, and Don could see his nose and mouth were bleeding. Dark bruises were forming on his younger brother's throat, giving evidence to attempted strangulation. For a moment, Don's heart swelled with pride and worry. His little brother had managed to fend off an attacker, and a serial killer at that.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Charlie asked harshly, putting fear back into Don's heart again.

"Put that gun down, Charlie," Don said, trying to keep his voice even.

"I'm going to kill him, Don," Charlie said, looking back down at Bartholomew. "I'm not going to let him hurt us anymore."

"Charlie, don't. This isn't you-"

"It is me!" Charlie screamed, his eyes flashing with anger. Don's heart threatened to stop when he saw Charlie's gun hand jerk. Even if he pulled that trigger accidentally, he would be a murderer.

"No, it's not. Charlie, you've had a rough month. Just put the gun down, let me arrest him, and we can take a nice vacation with Dad. Maybe we could go to New York, so you can take your bike and see the city. Wouldn't that be nice?"

The gun began to lower. Don felt the tension gripping his entire body ease a little.

"You think that's all it's going to take, Charlie?" Bartholomew said suddenly. "You think a little vacation will erase my brother from your memory?"

Don watched in horror as the pistol came up again. Charlie's eyes were wide, as if he were recalling that horrible night.

"Shut up, Leary!" Don said, leveling his gun at the killer. "Shut up!"

"I bet you dream about it every night. How he touched you, how he hurt you. Did he kiss you, Charlie? I bet that it felt so good, and at the same time, so horrible."

"Shut up!" Charlie said, the muzzle of his pistol suddenly pressing into Leary's temple. His entire body shook. He was about to fall apart.

"Charlie, don't listen to him!" Don said, stepping forward. He couldn't lose his brother, not like this. He realized that there was something worse than death, and that was the desecration of who Charlie was. His innocence, his love of peace, Leary was trying to take his brother away in the worst way possible.

"He's right, Don," Charlie said softly. "I do dream about it every night. I can't get it out of my head."

"Oh, Charlie," Don said, his heart twisting at the pain and sorrow in his little brother's eyes.

"I have tried so hard to tell myself that I've moved on. I really have tried. But I'm just… I'm just lying to myself, Don," Charlie, a tear slowly crawling down his cheek. "I'm never going to be the same. Leary took something away from me." Suddenly, his eyes hardened. "And his brother's going to give it back."

"Charlie, killing him is not the answer!" Don cried. Charlie didn't even look up.

"I don't care. I just want him to go away," he whispered, beginning to squeeze the trigger.

"Charlie, if you do this, I will kill myself!" Don yelled quickly, desperately. Charlie froze. He looked up at his older brother.

"Charlie, if you kill him, you will go to prison. For life. Charlie, I've visited a lot of prisons. I've talked to a lot of convicts. I know what they'd do to a guy like you. They'll… they'll do things just like what Leary did to you, and worse. I couldn't live knowing that you were enduring that, Charlie. I couldn't take it. I'd shoot myself."

The gun began to lower.

"Charlie, please," Don said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please don't do this. This isn't you. You aren't like this. You're so much stronger than this."

"Stronger? Stronger? I have been a weakling all my life. I was sheltered all my life, and yet I thought I was strong. I thought I knew everything. But I was weak!" He spat out the last word, his gun hand trembling dangerously.

"No, Charlie, you aren't stronger now. You think because you have a gun, you're strong? If that's the case, then that bastard on the floor can be strong. But he can't be, Charlie. He will always be weak, because he thinks his knife or his gun makes him strong."

Leary glared at Don. His attempts to manipulate Charlie were failing against Don's love for his brother.

"Charlie, I want the real you back. I want the brother who loves to play with numbers, who doesn't believe in guns. I want the brother who brings justice in a way I could never do, by using numbers and amazing intellect. I want the brother who looks at me with admiration and not desperation. I just want you back. I love you, bro," Don said.

Charlie blinked rapidly, vainly fighting against the tears. Suddenly, he was aware of everything around him. His stomach fluttering, his hands trembling, and the tears streaming down his face. Leary's fists clenched tightly, Don staring at his brother intently, the sound of distant sirens outside. He blinked, as if returning to reality.

He felt the cold metal in his hand and looked down. How had he gotten a gun?

"Charlie, please," Don whispered.

Charlie just stared at the gun, horrible thoughts running through his head. He had almost killed a man. He had almost sent himself to prison. He had almost ruined his brother's life.

He threw the gun away from himself, disgusted. He put his hands to his head, stepping away from Leary.

"What have I done?" Charlie whispered to himself. He glanced up, and saw his older brother. A tear was slowly making its way down his face, but Don was smiling.

"No!" Leary shouted. Suddenly, Don caught sight of a glint of metal in Leary's hand. A knife!

Bartholomew Leary leapt at Don, screaming in inchoate anger as Charlie watched helplessly.

"Don!"

Don had no choice but to fire. The bullet caught Leary in the shoulder, throwing him backwards. He landed hard on the floor, his eyes rolling with agony.

Training kicked in as Don rushed over to the murderer and stripped him of his weapon. He rolled him onto his stomach, just as police cars pulled up to the Eppes house outside.

"Bartholomew Leary, you're under arrest for the rape and murders of Jenna Sanders, Krystal Olivine, Dana Klein, Angela Ramos, Molly Hill, Helene White, Flora Peterson, Nicole Raleigh, Ellen Thompson, Robert Turner, Alice Wilson, Lois Cott, and Terry Lake. You're also under arrest for the assault of Charlie Eppes. You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Not that it matters, you're pretty much fucked anyway," Don said while handcuffing the man. "I hope you rot in hell."

"Don," Charlie said softly. Don looked up and smiled at his brother.

"I'm alright." Charlie rushed forward, and embraced him tightly.

"I love you, Donnie," he whispered.

"I love you too," Don said, a little awkward. It had been a long time since the brothers had embraced. "It's over."

_One week later..._

He watched her exit the center, searching for her car keys. She laughed quietly to herself, slightly amused by her inability to find them.

"Erin," Charlie called out, catching the young psychologist's attention. She looked up and smiled.

"Can I help you?" She asked. Even when not working, she seemed so willing to help.

"Yes, you can. I'm Charlie Eppes."

"Oh, Charlie!" She said. "I'm so sorry; I didn't recognize you for a second. How are you doing?"

"Well, that's what I want to talk to you about. I want to start having sessions again. I think I'm ready to talk." Erin's smile brightened.

"I'm so proud of you, Charlie."

"Why?" Charlie asked, confused.

"It takes courage to do what you just did. You just admitted that there's something you can't face alone. You are willing to go on that narrow road I told you about. You're ready to face your pain and conquer it. You have a strong heart, Charlie."

"I don't feel very strong right now," Charlie admitted. Erin put a comforting hand on his arm.

"Nobody feels strong. But I can see strength in you. It's the same as your father's."

Charlie smiled. He had never received such a compliment.

"So when can I start sessions?" Erin glanced at her watch.

"How about right now?"

"Are you sure?"

"The sooner you start on this road, Charlie, the sooner you'll heal."

One more to go, and no more cliff hangers. I will be redoing some of the chapters, thanks to wonderful constructive criticism. Thanks for reading!


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